I'm Baby Moth (They/Them) and this is for me to be a freak about COD in public. Don't be afraid to contact me, I'm a yapper at heart. I block Minors and ageless blogs with swiftness. Put my shit in an AI slop-machine and I’ll nuke this shit. Always reach out to me if I miss a tag! Post Dividers are from @sweetmelodygraphics
Price doesn't do aftercare, he's made that point blatantly obvious from the first night together.
Well, he doesn't do aftercare for himself. John has the decency to wipe you off and make sure you're okay, you wouldn't keep coming back to him otherwise, but when you try to look after him? Complete shut down.
"C'mon, sir, let me take care of you—" you beg for the third time, giving price your best pleading eyes. You run your hand over the hair on his chest, one leg hooked over his waist in that way you know he secretly likes.
"I'm fine." He grunts, shutting down already. Tensing up, about to push you off and escape like he always does when you lean foreward.
"Awww, no fun, sir. At least a kiss?" You pout, holding his jaw and pressing your lips to his. The faint taste of smoke and whisky on his tongue, mixed with the flavor of you.
Price jolts suddenly, pulls back, eyes narrowed "what the hell did i just swallow?"
Your delighted smile is the last thing price sses.
....only to wake up...still in bed? But, no, the sheets have been changed, and price feels different. Mouth minty, teeth brushed when he runs his tongue over them. He smells clean, too, as if he took a shower. Not to mention how for once his knees don't ache to the core.
He narrows his eyes at the ceiling. His wrists are cuffed to the bed.
...there's a weight on his chest, fingers curling into the hair between pecs.
"Glad you're awake, sir. Have some soup cooling off for you." Your voice drifts up.
Really, price should have expected it. That the one person willing to sleep with him consistently is also willing to fucking drug him for the sole purpose of aftercare.
Konig is definitely the type to FaceTime you while you’re out with the girls, except he’s shirtless and in low riding grey sweats that do absolutely NOTHING to hide his massive form. Laid out on the bed, pillows pulled tight to him, phone propped up to show himself perfectly laid out, dimly lit room sending shadows everywhere. Having to pretend everything’s alright, like nothing is happening, making sure to leave with a long, desperate massage of his groin, ending the call with a devilish little smirk, knowing it won’t take long. Jumping from your seat, grabbing the coat across the chair, startling the group, loosely explaining “something came up” while heading for the door already.
Part 1 of a little comic for mershark soap and pirate ghost :)
Ghost thought sharks didn't make noise so he's really shocked when the one he's stuck with (hes not really stuck hes keeping it around cause he feels bad and the mer is handsome) starts crying loudly...
Look, I'm still thinking about loser König, and I'm writing the smut I wish to see in the world (afab reader, in this one, btw)
Loser König who is shamefully obsessed with you. He wants to talk to you, he really does, but he's awkward, too big for his skin. Whenever you're around, his tongue is heavy and thick inside his mouth. Language gets jumbled, his shoulders hunch in, and he worries. God, how he worries. He's pent up enough the merest brush of your pinky against his sends him into a spiral, giddy images of you below him, sweaty and moaning his name, dancing in his mind's eye.
When he finally works up the nerve to introduce himself, you shake his hand, perfect lips forming the syllables of his name. He knows he's done for. The sound of his name in your mouth was so sweet it had him cumming in his pants like some pathetic teenager. He feels pathetic when he has to angle his hips away from you so you don't notice the slightly darker patch of fabric over his crotch.
Loser König who gets off on the embarrassment of it all. He can't help his body's reaction to you, the dizzing rush of blood to his cock when you walk past, hips swaying and drawing his eyes down to your perfect ass. Your scent trails behing you, swirling in your wake. He wonders what kind of perfume you like, what would smell best mixed with the smell of his cum on your skin. He buys different perfumes to try, mixing drops of his favorites with the lotion he uses to jack off. It helps him pretend you're the one touching him. When he's finished and is laying on his back staring at the celing, shame floods in, the cycle restarts, and he's thinking about you again.
Loser König who learns to edge himself. Rather than allowing himself the satisfaction of an easy orgasm, he slips on a silicone cock ring, the black of the ring stark against the blue-white of his thighs. He has one photo of you, a blurry thing he snapped surreptitiously across a crowded bar. You weren't looking at the camera, face half turned away as you laughed at something or someone next to you. You hadn’t even known he was there, but he'd seen you. He always notices you.
He groans, left forefinger brushing across the pixels that mark your lips. It's a tender gesture completely at odds with the vicious way König tugs at his cock, fighting off his impending orgasm. He needs to learn to last, has to figure out how to make it, make him, worth your while. If you ever let him find his way between your legs, he wants to make sure he can last. He knows he won't, but he'd like to try.
Loser König who's so surprised when you do part your thighs for him that all he can do is stutter breathless "thank you"s as you line his tip up with your hole. He doesn't have the silicone cock ring, can't think of the mantras he memorized to help him last. All he can do is look down at the place where the two of you meet, his thumbs spreading your labia so he can get a better look at the way his cock disappears so easily inside you. It's so much better than anything he imagined. He was right though - he doesn't last. He makes it up to you by fucking you three more times and then licking you until you're screaming. You fall asleep in his arms, sleepy and exhausted from the sex, a drowsy little smile dancing around the corners of your mouth. Just like that introduction, König knows he's done for. You've let him have a taste, and now you'll never be rid of him.
“Old dog’s can’t learn new tricks, price” Soap would grin across the table. Ghost’s low chuckle followed like smoke. “Bet the missus is bored stiff, Captain.”
Price never rose to the clear ragebait in front of the boys, but the words..stuck. You were younger, gorgeous, and God— always eager for him… yet a small, ugly part of him wondered if they were right. He’d never exactly been the adventurous type in bed—solid, thorough, but not… inventive.
So he cornered Gaz one night after drills.
“Need a favor, Sergeant.”
Gaz raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
Price rubbed the back of his neck, face already red with what he could only pin as embarrassment. “You’re good with the ladies. I want lessons. Real ones.”
Gaz blinked, then a slow, wicked grin spread. “You want a demonstration, Captain?”
Price’s jaw flexed. “Please..”
That’s how you ended up here—naked on the bed, thighs spread over Price’s lap while Gaz knelt between your legs like he’d been invited to dinner.
Price’s big hands were firm on your waist, keeping you pinned back against his chest. “She’s sensitive.” he muttered, almost clinical, but you could feel how hard he was against your lower back. “On with it, sergeant.”
Gaz’s eyes flicked up to yours, dark and hungry. “You ready for this, love?”
You nodded, already wet and aching just from the sheer thrill of the situation.
Gaz didn’t waste time. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open. “First thing—don’t rush. Get her nice and wet.” He rubbed slow circles over your clit until your hips jerked, then pushed two fingers inside, curling just right.
Price watched every movement like it was a briefing.
“There’s a spongy spot here…” Gaz pressed upward deliberately causing your whole body to jolt. “Right there. That’s your target.”
He started pumping—steady, focused strokes that dragged over that spot again and again while his thumb kept pressure on your clit.
Price’s voice was rough in your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart. Let him work.”
Your orgasm built fast—embarrassingly so.
“That’s it..” Gaz praised, voice low. “She’s swelling up. See how she’s pulsing?” He added a third finger and the pressure inside became unbearable. “When she starts trying to close her legs, don’t let her. Keep going.”
Price’s hands moved to your thighs, holding them open. You came with a broken cry, but Gaz didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, rough and relentless, and suddenly everything felt tighter, hotter, like something was about to—
“There..” Gaz growled. “Let it go, lovely...”
With a whine, a gush of wetness flooded out around his fingers, soaking the sheets and his wrist. Price made a low, filthy sound behind you as he watched you squirt for the first time in your life.
Gaz eased his fingers out slowly, letting you ride the aftershocks, then lifted his soaked hand to show Price. “That’s the spot. Consistent pressure, curved fingers, and you don’t stop when she comes.. you keep going until she gives it to you.”
Price’s breathing was ragged. His cock was nearly throbbing against your back.
Gaz wiped his fingers on your inner thigh, then met Price’s eyes. “Your turn, Captain.”
Price shifted you forward, laying you down properly. He kissed the inside of your knee, voice low with promise.
Riley with food issues after his childhood and Roba.
He doesn't eat in the mess unless he cooked the food himself in secret, after everyone is gone. Maybe he made an agreement with kitchen staff so he can even use everything there.
He doesn't accept snacks or meals from anyone unless he trusts them (and he rarely truly trusts someone enough).
Riley who doesn't eat unless it's a pre-packaged MRE or something he made himself, because he doesn't fucking trust the food not to be spoiled or spiked. He's lived through enough, and sometimes things smell funny or look wrong when he focuses on the food too much.
I feel like the one holiday Ghost likes is April Fool’s. He doesn’t do anything on April 1st, that’s too obvious. But he keeps a mental log of every little prank that’s pulled on him that day, and catalogs it for when he finally gets revenge. Every year he chooses a different day in April, but it is coming. And only he knows.
soap likes pie and the lads get him a pie every year for his birthday.
whether it's from their favorite bakery, a local shop on a mission, ordered as take away. even if it's the tiniest slice of pie any of them have ever seen. Even if it's the ugliest thing made of literal mud. They always find a way to make sure John MacTavish has a pie for his birthday.
That summer Soap enjoyed his birthday pie surrounded by the lads at a FOB. It was sunny. Spirits were high. everyone got a piece.
At some point between Las Almas and that summer, someone had started calling Johnny and his pies "good luck pies." If soap was in a pie mood, things were sure to go well. Didn't matter if he actually ate any pie, as long as the thought and joy of pie was there.
the next birthday, ghost finds a bakery two streets from the safehouse. nobody asks him to. he just comes back, sets it on the table.
the lads filter in. someone pulls up a chair. someone else leans against the wall with their arms crossed.
nobody cuts it for a while.
eventually ghost says, flatly, that soap would've already had half of it gone before anyone else got a look in. someone makes a sound that isn't quite a laugh, the others join in.
gaz cuts it, same as always, more or less.
it's not an FOB. it's not sunny. spirits are not high. and everyone gets a piece.
maybe that's the thing about the good luck. it was just as much about him being there. john macтavish, in a good mood, with a pie.
they were lucky to have that. lucky to know him. lucky to have him.
cw: disassociating, maybe absence seizures. very brief, very light, soft but interrupted smut. Hurt/comfort. TBI. soap x reader. (Another Whumpee!Soap piece what can I say. He is my muse.)
Johnny and his post-tbi disassociation, the distances and absences you've become familiar with.
How his smile fades at the dinner table, eyes drifting away to some distant place. His hands just... pausing over the dirt while you're both in the garden.
At first it broke your heart. The doctors had said 'be patient' but no one had explained what that meant.
No one had explained it would mean conversations stopping for minutes on end. No one had explained it would mean taking sharp objects from his hands just in case he forgot they were there. No one had said how much it would hurt to see your Johnny come back from wherever he goes and tears spring in his eyes. Scared, or lost, or angry. Or wherever it took him that moment.
You learn, slowly, that the best thing to do is wait. Sometimes you keep talking, gently. Sometimes you sit in silence with him. Sometimes you keep your hand steadily brushing through his hair—he'd started letting only you care for it since coming home from the hospital, slow nights spent cleaning around the bandages turned into your little routine. Sometimes just a hand over his, something to hold onto when he surfaces again.
Mostly though, it's become just... a part of your days. His and yours. They frustrate him still, but mostly it's better. It's okay.
That is until he's panting over you, lips pressed to your neck as he moves slowly. Hips thrusting between your legs, trying to bury himself and stay there forever where it's warm and safe.
And he pulls back to smile down at you. And you see it long before it happens. The gloss washing over. Bright blue eyes greying over.
And Johnny just.. stills.
"Johnny..." You manage, hand coming up to cup his face.
He's still for a long moment. Longer than usual by your count.
Your eyes sting before you can stop them. Hand brushing back Johnny's hair. The other stroking absently over his arm.
"John..." You try again, throat squeezing down around his name.
And finally he inhales. Blinking back to you. His eyes find yours. And that familiar realization passes through them. His forehead drops to your shoulder. He doesn't move for a moment.
"I'm sorry, Love. I'm so sorry—"
You feel him shift, like he's going to move to get up. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close.
"Shh don't apologize. Are you alright?"
He manages a nod.
"Want to keep going?"
He's still for a moment. His breath is warm, shakey against your chest.
Finally, he shakes his head.
"Alright," you whisper. "That's alright."
He moves slowly out from between your legs. Only moving as far as to lie next to you, head still buried in your neck.
You lie there for a little while, just breathing together. His weight against your side something solid to hold onto.
Your hand moves through his hair, slow and steady. The other rests against his arm.
His tears come gradually. He doesn't make a sound, just the wet against your skin, and the occasional unsteady breath.
At some point his grip on you shifts. Tightens, his fingers finding yours and holding.
You feel the moment his breathing evens out. A slow exhale. The tension leaving his shoulders by degrees.
You press your lips to his hair.
"Bath or shower?"
He breathes. Then, quietly: "Bath."
You ease yourself up and pad to the bathroom, running it warm. Not hot, he'd told you once, early on, that too much heat made it worse.
When you come back for him he's sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. Staring at the floor. You can see the wet at the corners of his eyes he's still trying to hold back.
You stand in front of him and open your arms. He folds into you without a word, face pressing into your stomach. His shoulders shake.
You hold him and let him cry into you. Your own tears dripping from your cheeks to his head.
It takes a moment. Moving slowly from the bed to the filled tub. But eventually, you're both in the water. His back to your chest, your chin resting on his shoulder. His hands have found yours beneath the surface and he's holding on with both of his.
"Still here," you murmur.
His grip tightens.
You press your lips to his cheek. The corner of his jaw. The soft skin just below his ear. And then longer on the back of his neck.
"Love you," he says, voice rough and quiet.
"I know." You hook your chin on his shoulder again. "Love you too, Johnny."
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