You can just call me Rain (not my actual name, lol) • He/Him • 19 • 🇨🇦 🏳️⚧️• MDNI Heya, this is mostly a fan content account— I do fics & fanart specifically • Currently yapping about: COD/the MW Remakes • Feel free to send me asks or writing request!
(Do I have enough writing things posted to make this? Perchance. Perchancen’t. I’m going to make this anyway to keep organized.)
Guidelines for submitting a writing request / ask —> Here
(My ao3 account — registered ao3 users only)
✨Feel free to use my shite as inspo for your own fics/works! Y'can tag me too if y'want, because I’m nosey, lmao.✨
That being said, please do not feed any of my writing (whether it’s my writing or just headcannons) into AI / chat bots. If you’d like someone to expand on an idea, there’s a decent chance I totally will! Just like, send an ask, or comment on the post. :3
General Ramblings/Being not normal about stuff and things™️
(Or you can just search through the ‘☔️ rambles’ tag on my blog)
Breakdown of the 141 and their love languages (4/4 prts, poly!141)
Being very normal™️ about Ghost, his mask, and how a first kiss is handled (ghost x anyone, basically)
My interpretation of a clingy Soap (Soap x gn!reader — pretty much just three short fluffy scenarios)
Random idea for a Gaz wrong number fic (Gaz x gn!reader — After a one night stand, Gaz goes to reach out to them, but gets reader instead, who, thinking it’s some kind of scam, decides to text him back)
How I think the boys handled the drive to spread Soap’s ashes (implied poly!141 — Angst, hurt/no comfort, character death)
My take on Ghost's mask during smut scenes (Ghost x anyone really, but I had x gn!reader in mind while writing it)
Anon ask regarding my opinion on popular headcannons about Ghost
Headcannon about Gaz catching bugs and letting them outside instead of killing them (CW for bugs)
Ghost and his reasons for wearing a mask while on leave (another headcannon post)
x gn!reader; alone time at a safe house (pure nsfw, w/ some fluff) (please note: this is the only post I’ll format as an ao3 reupload, the rest will be formatted like a regular tumblr fic post with tags/caution warnings)
Did’ya Miss Me? — x gn!reader; Soap loves your attention, but he loves working for it even more (nsfw, pwp, a bit of fluff if you squint)
Bad Dog — gn!reader x pup!Soap; After almost an entire week apart, you can't exactly expect Johnny to be well-behaved when you see each other again, now can you? (nsfw, pwp, top!sub!Soap, bottom!gn!reader)
Ghost
Again, workin’ on it :3
Gaz
Also workin’ on it
Price
Morning Soldier — gn!reader x husband!Price (Short, pure fluff, and little-to-no plot, just cozy vibes and a lazy morning in bed)
König
Outlet — gn!reader x sub!König; After König has a rather stressful day, you take it into your own hands to help him relax. (oneshot, smut w/ a little plot, boot humping, very minor humilation kink, light fluff, implied! established relationship)
Kinktober 2025 Day Six: Outdoor sex + Intoxication
MDNI 18+
Pairing: Gaz x ftm!Reader (mentions of sucking off, cock, folds, cunt, being wet, stuff like that.)
CW: Smut, obviously. Bit of a slow-ish burn here folks (at least compared to my other entries, lmao). Dub-con. Semi-public (alleyway). Reader + Gaz are drunk. Probably inaccurate depictions of being drunk (I've never personally indulged, but I tried my best to make it somewhat realistic lol). Implied friends to lovers. Banter/teasing. Drunk kissing. Brief dry humping/grinding. Reader gets head. Light fingering. Porn with slight plot. Not Beta Read.
I've just accepted I'm going to be like, a day behind on my posts at this point, oh well.
Hope y'all enjoy this anyway, lmao.
"No, you've got to be taking the piss, like, seriously?" The noise of the pub fades to a muted murmur as the backdoor eases into place, the lock clicking affirmatively behind you both.
Kyle lets out a sort of sniggering sound — albeit slightly slurred — and his shoulders shake, though you're only mildly aware of it, mostly due to how his jacket crinkles from the movement. Water splashes underneath his boot as he clips the edge of a puddle. "Hand to god, I'm telling the bloody truth— he's jus' that much of'a prick." An easy smile pulls at the corners of his mouth — making his cheeks form little dimples — it hasn't budged since sometime around his third pint of the night.
You just scoff, and shove at his shoulder, sending him tottering a wobbly few feet to your left, though the distance doesn't stay for long as you trail after him. Even with the comfortably warm fuzz lazing over your mind, his bullshit story still didn't sound believable. "Ye're a terrible liar, Garrick, now I know ye're havin' me on."
His hand finds your wrist as he lilts backwards, shoulder catching the brick wall before he steadies himself, still smiling as he tilts his head to meet your eyes. "Yeah? And what makes you say that now?"
It seems in the time it takes you to blink, you've somehow moved closer again. The toes of your boots clumsily bumping his as your hand not caught in his grip flutters up to rest on his cheek.
The pads of your fingers brush along where the dim street lamps' light catches against his cheekbones — dusting them in a soft bronze — then dip lower, following the shallow grooves of the scars on his cheek. This close you can feel when his breathing slows to be in time with the fluttering of his lashes and the gradual furrow forming between his thick brows. He says your name through a soft exhale, which finally spurs your brain into processing his question.
Carefully your touch drifts once more, grazing the pad of your thumb along his jaw, then doing it again just to memorize the sensation how his stubble scuffs your skin. "Can tell jus' from ye're eyes," it takes a bit of concentration, but you manage to lift your gaze from his bottom lip up to his eyes, impossibly brown and unreasonably soft and bright for the hour as he looks at you. Distantly you're aware of the way he gently squeezes your wrist, drawing your attention back to the conversation, "they're all shiny like ye're full'a shite."
A loud laugh startles from Kyle's body, you're pressed close enough that you can feel the way it buzzes through his chest. "Fucking hell," he says through an exhale, "you're absolutely pissed." There's more approval in his voice than there really ought to be, considering the words.
You graze the backs of your knuckles down the column of his throat, and take mild delight in feeling it shift under your touch as he swallows. "M'perfectly fine," you lie through your teeth as you let your nail catch on the chain of Kyle's dog tags that were just barely peaking out from under the collar of his shirt; the metal is warm even with the slight chill in the night's air, you give them a light tug, guiding him to dip his head forwards at the pressure, "not m'fault your eyes give y'away." It's only as Kyle's loosening his hold on your wrist to slide his hand higher, tentatively threading his fingers between your own do you realize you can feel his breath ghosting your lips in soft little puffs.
"Sure," he allows placatingly, his smile twitching at the corners, "that's what it must be, 'cause you're jus' bloody brilliant at holding your liquor."
Low in the back of your throat you scoff, before closing the short distance between you both to press your forehead against Kyle's, "don't start with tha' now," your fingers slowly draw his dog tags out from under his shirt, they make a quiet clinking sound as they hit against themselves before settling against his breastbone, the pad of your thumb traces over the raised lettering, "I can drink circles around you and you know it."
The corner of his eyes crinkle softly as he scoffs, and rolls his eyes, it would look almost playful, if it weren't for the way his gaze narrows slightly with a slight edge of a challenge. His other hand follows along the seams of your jacket, eventually settling against your ribs. As he speaks, you can feel his throat buzzing under your knuckles, "oh come off it, if I weren't holding you, you'd be flat out on your arse," there's a lilt to his voice, like he's teasing, but you're close enough that you don't miss the way his eyes spark, as if some part of him actually believes that.
To your clouded mind, the blatant lack of confidence in you is a grave offense, one that wasn't going to slip by without a dig of your own. Your fingers wind through the chain of his dog tags even more securely, to the point where the pattern was sure to remain pressed into your skin, even once you let it go. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, mate. 'Least I can hold it well enough to not get whiskey dick."
Silence stretches between you both, filled only by the muted sounds of the pub that manage to drift through the back door, and the sound of tires on asphalt that occasionally pass by at the head of the alleyway. You just watch every little shift of Kyle's expression as he process that comment like it's the most interesting thing you've ever seen, as if you were doing your best to fight through the haze of alcohol to try to cling to the memory all the way through until morning.
Eventually the moment pops, fizzling away as Kyle giggles — it's a light, airy sound that practically has to fight it's way out of him — scrunching the bridge of his nose while he does, "you're such a fucking arsehole," he grumbles. You find yourself laughing too, though whether that be because you delighted in annoying him, even if it had no teeth, or simply because Kyle was, and you couldn't help yourself with the way the sound made your skin buzz, you weren't entirely sure. Regardless it resulted in you both slumping into each other even harder.
You're not entirely sure what happened, in one moment both of your chuckling petered off, softening until you were both left trying to pull what little composure you had left in your bodies back into some semblance of calmness, panting quietly while tangled around each other, and in the next your lips were pressing together. It was soft at first, as if accidental, just another way you both brushed together due to unsteady feet; but then it happens again, with slightly more intent, again and again, lazy presses that send sparks down your spine and make your head spin more than anything you've drunken tonight has.
Kyle's hands slip — not that you notice all that much, far too preoccupied trying to lick the taste of cheap beer from his mouth — and cradle your jaw, pressing into your skin as if trying to keep you close. Each press and slide of your mouths gets longer and longer, bodies swaying as you trade kisses back and forth, until you're both breathing hard in the short moments you break away from each other. Eventually even when you stop kissing, keeping your heads pressed together while panting softly, you both keep swaying, messily grinding against each other. You can feel Kyle's cock through his jeans, rubbing against your thigh with every unsteady rock of his hips; his knee is pressed between your legs, the perfect height for you to rock down on as you mouth at his jaw.
"Guess I was wrong about the whiskey dick."
"Oh fucking hell," Kyle grunts, grabbing your hips and trying fruitlessly to guide your movements to find better friction, it doesn't work particularly well, both your movements horrendously uncoordinated, "if I suck you off will you shut up for five minutes about that?"
While it was mostly said in exacerbation, it still has you groaning against his throat as your head falls forwards, resting against his shoulder. "'Suppose tha' could be arranged."
Adrenaline thumps through your veins as you're pushed back against the brick wall, and Kyle sinks to his knees in front of you, fumbling with your belt as he kisses your abdomen through your shirt. Your breathing goes a little unsteady as you watch him, your hands running over every part of him you can reach — mindful not to crush his curls — as he pulls your trousers down, your boxers following soon after, the wet patch that had begun to form on them fairly visible, even in the low light. Kyle just looks up at your through his lashes with a wordless smirk, clearly amused.
You just huff at him, spreading yourself open with your own fingers, cock already aching for attention, even as your cunt continues to drool from his proximity and being out in the open like this, "yeah, yeah, Garrick. Get on with it, or you can walk back to base with a stiffy."
He grumbles something you don't quite catch under his breath, but does as you ask, pressing forwards and taking your cock into his mouth, as both his hands find the backs of your thighs, tugging you closer.
"Fuck— Kyle… That's it… Shit." Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as his tongue laps at the underside of your cock, sending steady pulses of heat down your spine while he sucks like he's trying to pull you as deep into his mouth as possible. There's a little furrow between his brow, as if he's concentrating on the taste of you, trying to draw even more of it out of you just to drink it down.
Distantly, you're fairly certain you're murmuring a steady babble of more low praises for him, for his tongue, but you hardly notice, far more occupied with the way one of his hands tucks under your knee, slinging your leg over his shoulder, while the other slips between your legs, letting his middle finger stroke over your hole, playing with the mess you were making, and occasionally dipping inside you before drawing right back out, teasing you with the feeling.
Kyle keeps on like that, teasing and prodding and sucking, slowly stoking your pleasure, building a coil of need in your abdomen that was dizzying as much as it stole your breath from your lungs. Your hips give little abortive thrusts, grinding your cock against his tongue as the muscles in your thighs twitched and jumped.
It doesn't take him long to have you hissing curses through your teeth as your body shudders, your cunt giving pulsing squeezes around nothing that has you whining as you try to press your cock as deep into his mouth as you can manage. Sparks jolt up and down your spine, fizzling out in the back of your head.
When it all starts to become too much, you gently push at his forehead, and Kyle pulls back, pressing a few lazy kisses to your thigh, before just resting his head there.
Once you come back down and catch your breath, you're pulling at his clothes, drawing him to his feet and kissing him, he just laughs — slightly foiling your efforts — as you flip you both around, pressing him against the wall again, "your turn, Garrick," you manage to get out.
That familiar grin pulls at Kyle's lips, still covered in your slick, and making his dimples pop, "do your worst."
Thanks for reading!
Fun fact, the reason I started writing x reader fics for CoD was because I wanted to read ftm!reader x soap fics, and couldn't really find many (which later became a want for more gn! and amab! reader fics as well). Be the change you want to see in the world and all that, I guess, lmao.
Kinktober 2025 Day Five: Finger sucking + Dacryphilia
MDNI 18+
Paring: Price x Soap
CW: Smut, obviously. Porn with light plot. Fighting. Slightly rough sex. Throat fucking. Overstimulation. Messy sex (I suppose?). Crying during sex. Slight dub-con (not really but just to be safe). Cockwarming (sort of?). Finger sucking. Come swallowing. Soap has his accent. Probably military inaccuracies. Mean!Price. Not Beta Read.
Bit late, sorry y'all, this one got away from me.
I swear I'll write some smut with a softer Price, but that is for far later in the month, for now he's going to be a bit of a dick, lmao.
Enjoy.
They were both silent as Price pressed the room keycard against the electronic lock, the mechanism hesitated for a moment, before the little green light began to flash, and it unlocked with a heavy clunk. As soon as it's open Price wastes no time pushing open the door and slipping into their room, he doesn't bother holding it open, and if Soap wasn't hot on his Captain's heels it would've swung shut right in his face. Price's steps are heavy — even with the plush carpet doing it's best to try to mute them — as he heads straight into the attached loo, slamming the door shut behind him hard enough that Soap swears he can feel his teeth rattle in his skull.
On the back of the door is a full body mirror, leaving Soap staring at his own reflection, looking as out of place in a posh hotel room as he feels, even wearing the nicest suit Laswell could acquire at such short notice, it doesn't hide his jagged edges, how some of his scars peak past the fabric, or the dark bags under his eyes, that his nails are chewed down to the quick.
With a sigh Soap forces his gaze away, using one hand to tug his earpiece out and tossing it on top of their bags of gear tucked away in the closet, while with the other he runs his fingers through his mohawk, pulling at the sections that were starting to grow out a bit too much.
What a fucking shit show.
Reconnaissance was never exactly Soap's wheelhouse — sure he could get on with it just fine, but if given the choice he'd always much rather be clearing something out or tearing something down, not trying to slink his way into some intel, or waiting about for it to come to him — but this was fucking brutal, they've spent days upon days of waiting, and they still haven't managed to gather anything of use; the sole person that Price managed to find who might've known anything about their target, Soap scared off when he stepped in to get rid of a creepy wank-stain on the other side of the room who had been harassing some bystanders. As soon as his eyes had found Price's, he knew he'd fucked up.
Next to go was his blazer, haphazardly hung up so it doesn't get wrinkled, then his tie. Through the door to the bathroom Soap can hear the shower head hissing in displeasure as it's switched on.
Right then.
Soap putters about, trying to go about the routine he's fallen into over the time they've been stuck living in this little room, he finishes changing, opting for loose shorts and a shirt that's a bit too big for him now with how often it's been worn and sent through the wash, digs around their kit for an MRE that least resembles dog vomit, and warms it up, before he takes his place on his half of the bed they've been sharing— supposedly it was the only room available with how quickly this mission was pulled together, Soap's personal theory is that they just didn't want to pay more money to get something better.
At least it had warm water, no mould, and cable, he supposed.
He uses a remote with far too many buttons than could ever possibly be necessary to flip through the stations on the telly for a while as he picks away at his food, finally settling on some nonsense variety program he's never heard of by the time Price comes back out. Price is in nothing but a towel that's wrapped around his waist, and held in place securely in his off hand, water drips from his hair and beard, lazily rolling down his body as he pads over to the closet, his back to Soap, "turn tha' the fuck down Sargent. Last thing we need right now's a bloody noise complaint."
The shitty plastic fork bends in Soap's hand, but he does jab at the volume button to lower the telly, even if it wasn't that loud to begin with, "if ye wan' tae holler at me fine— but dinnae be doin' any o'this passive aggressive bullshit." Soap wasn't blind, he knew Price was livid with him, he could see how Price's shoulders were stiff and held taut, even now his knuckles were paling under the pressure of how he was holding the edge of his towel, besides, Price had hardly said a word to him since they met up at the rendezvous point.
There's just enough time for Soap to set down his RME on the nightstand before Price rounds on him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking him up off the bed to the point where Soap has to brace one of his arms against the wall to keep himself upright. "Do not sass me, MacTavish. You potentially jeopardized our entire mission tonight with tha' little stunt of yours."
His fingers wrap around Price's wrist, squeezing hard enough that Soap can feel the delicate bones under his skin. "People where in danger and I stepped in, ah'm nae gonnae apologies fer tha', especially naw on account o' some mingin' intel tha' we dinnae even ken is solid."
For a moment they just stare at each other, Soap's words hanging thick in the air between them. They're close enough that Soap can feel Price's breath puffing against his face, and occasionally small droplets of water fall from his body and splatter against Soap's skin. "Well I'm glad you enjoyed getting to play hero tonight," Price's voice is low and rough, almost forcing Soap to lean closer just to properly catch every word, "because without knowin' when our target is going to move and where, you've jus' gotten a whole lot more killed." Just as abruptly as he was grabbed, Soap is let go, nearly knocking his head against the headboard from the sudden movement fucking up his balance. Scowling Soap glares at the back of his Captain's head, lightly rubbing at his throat where his shirt had begun to dig into his throat.
What a fucking cunt.
"Dinnae try tae put tha' on me. We have nae fuckin' idea what the end goal o'all this shite is. At least I was fuckin' doin' somethin' instead o' jus'—" Without thinking about it past the frustration bubbling in his veins, Soap grabs at Price, yanking him back over in a bid to stop him from brushing this off. It works — to the extent where Price is standing over him once more — but has the unintended side effect of leaving Soap holding a towel. For a second or so he doesn't really process the item, staring at the pristine white fabric with a blank look; it's only as he catches a glimpse of his Captain's soft cock out of the corner of his eyes that he properly grasps what he's just done.
Bloody hell. If Price wasn't going to do him in before, he most certainly was going to now.
Price reaches out, fisting the top of Soap's mohawk and pulling his head back with enough force that Soap can't help but to wince. "You need somethin' to do to keep you in line? Fine. We'll find you somethin'."
Which is how Soap finds himself on his back, head braced against the corner of the mattress as Price holds him down by his shoulders while he sloppily fucks Soap's throat with slow thrusts. It was all he could do to try and keep his throat relaxed, and breathe through his nose whenever Price pulled back; he still wasn't getting enough air, his mind fuzzy from it, and his lungs full with the heavy smell of his Captain and cheap hotel soap. With each shift of his hips Price lets out low pleased grunts and groans. Spit pooled in Soap's mouth alongside Price's bitter precome, mixing together and drooling down his cheeks as its forced past his lips by Price's thick cock. "Much better use fer tha' fuckin' mouth of yours," Price grumbles, bracing his hands more securely against Soap's shoulders leaning over him to rock deeper into his throat, only scoffing as Soap gags slightly around him.
Soap just huffs through his nose, and lightly tugs on Price's balls in protest.
Hissing, Price bucks into Soap's mouth, and Soap can feel his Captain's cock pulse on his tongue with how it's pressed against one of the thick veins running along his shaft. One of his hands shift to press against the base of Soap's throat holding him still as he thrusts into his mouth with more intent. "I ought to fuck tha' attitude right out of you, son," his other hand slides down Soap's body, slipping under the loose hem of his shorts and wrapping around his hard cock, and stroking him hard enough that Soap's vision — as poor as it was at the moment — fuzzed. He did his best to try and keep breathing as Price kept himself buried in his throat. Soap's hips twitched and bucked, trying to get as much friction as he could from Price's hand.
It didn't take long for the pleasure knotting at the base of his cock to snap, come spilling over Price's fingers in broken pulses as Soap shuddered, trying desperately not to choke, or bite down on Price.
But Price doesn't stop— he just keeps pumping Soap like nothing happened, even as Soap's orgasm begins to ebb into something sharper that has him trying to shift away from the touch. He grunts in discomfort, lightly squeezing at Price's thick arse, trying to draw him back.
"You're the one who wanted to work off some excess energy Sargent, we're not stoppin' until you're well and done in. Young thing like you can give me more than one, can't you?" Soap's heard that tone before, it wasn't a question so much as an order, one that Price didn't sound too keen on letting up about anytime soon.
So they continued, Price working Soap over and over until his softening cock fattened up again, and Soap sullied his hand further with pathetic little spurts of come.
It's part way through the third round when Soap's eyes begin to water, and fat tears begin to run down the side of his face — leaving red streaks marring his skin — before settling in his ears. His head was muddled, all he could think about was the weight of Price's cock in his mouth, and the sharp jolts of pleasure twitching through his body. He felt overly aware of everything touching him, the sheets at his back, the sweat beading his body, his heartbeat thudding deafeningly loud in his ears — nearly drowning out the sounds of Price stroking him — how his own come was drying unpleasantly on his skin even as he made more and more of a mess of himself, the heat of Price's hand felt like it was branding him with each pump of his raw cock. Soap just lets out a broken whimper as a shudder rolls down his spine. His body tenses as he comes again, his thighs shake as his cock pulses weakly and a small dribble of come drools from his slit.
Price finally eases up, letting go of Soap's cock and easing out of his mouth as Soap whines. Before he can even try to catch his breath though, Price is stuffing his fingers into Soap's mouth with a grunt, "you make a mess, you clean it up." It takes a moment for Soap to understand what's begin asked of him, but when he does, he uses his tongue to lave at Price's skin, licking up his own come and swallowing it.
When Soap does as much as he can, Price pulls his fingers back out and wipes the spit coating his fingers onto Soap's shirt. "…Still in one piece Sargent?"
Soap gulps in deep breaths, his head is still fuzzy, and his body is heavy, every attempt at moving feeling like dragging about dead weight, "aye," he croaks, voice rough and unsteady, "m'solid," mostly anyway, even if his joints feel like they've become liquid, "jus' need a minute."
"Good. When you're ready go get yourself cleaned up and turn in, yeah?" He gets one pat on the shoulder before Price turns to go get dressed.
CW: Smut, obviously. Voyeurism. Dub-con (just to be safe). Masturbation. Semi-public (in the communal showers). Short. Operator!Reader. Not Beta Read.
Bit of a shorter one today, just to pace myself lmao. Hope y’all enjoy.
You hadn't meant to, honest— it was simply poor timing, and admittedly, momentary obliviousness borne from your over tired mind.
After you had returned from a solo mission that had gone particularly cockeyed, all you wanted to do was slink away to the barracks and curl up under your paper thin sheets and sleep the entire thing off. Unfortunately — since your body was so splattered with mud and blood — you had to brave the showers first.
The tile was is cool against your bare feet as you pad from the empty locker room and into the communal showers, it's enough to wake you up a little, but it's not enough to have turning on your heel when you hear the soft sound of running water; even though you do slow down. This late at night you had assumed the showers would've been completely deserted. It takes a few more steps for your brain to trudge through the exhaustion dipped cotton clouding your mind to register the other sound echoing off the walls as muffled groans. You freeze as your eyes jerk up to find the source of the sound.
For a moment you're not entirely sure who you're looking at, the sight of pale skin knitted together by countless scars and blanketing thick knots of muscle unfamiliar to you. His head is bowed forwards, topped with cropped blonde hair — which was presently flattened and darkened by the the steady patter of water from the shower head — the bridge of his nose was crooked, as if it had been broken time and time again, and never quite healed right, and his lips were parted around his hand from how he was biting down on the space between his thumb and his index finger. His other hand was wrapped quite visibly around his cock, stroking himself in quick jolted movements. Each twitch of his wrist has him rolling his hips forwards, jerkily thrusting into the tight ring of his fist.
You're fairly certain you stop breathing, the air in your lungs suddenly far too heavy to move.
It takes you a second to recognize the tattoos etched into the skin of his forearm — more preoccupied by watching the way his muscles shift — but when you do, you feel your blood turn to ice in your veins as your heart jumps up and lodges in your throat.
Oh fuck.
That's your Lieutenant.
You're watching your bloody Lieutenant wank off in the shower— listening to him muffle his grunts and groans against his hand.
You'll never be able to look him in the eyes again, not without thinking about how he looks with the weight of his cock in his hand, or how his tip looks flushed and dripping precome, or how his thick thighs twitch as he works himself over, or—
Fuck.
Somewhere in the back of your mind you're vaguely aware you should move, flee far from here and cut your losses, resign yourself to another uncomfortable night covered in muck— not that the sentiment seems to matter much, because you can't bring yourself to move. It's all you can do to try to melt through the tiles as you watch Ghost steadily work himself up, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, until his body tenses, a shudder rolling through his back as his hips push forwards, his hand squeezing the base of his cock as he comes; some of it splatters the lower portions of the tiled wall, while the rest hits the tile at his feet, quick to be washed away by the still running water.
His chest heaves with the force of his heavy breaths, and you finally tear your gaze away, shame and heat claw at the back of your neck in equal measure. Keeping your head low, you're suddenly more than eager to scurry away, turning and slinking out of the showers; you're barely over the threshold into the locker room when you freeze again—
"S'not nice t'stare, kid," Ghost says coolly, the echo of the showers more than strong enough to carry his voice to you without him having to raise it. Mortification floods your body, and you uselessly cover your warming face with your hand as you run off before he can say anything else.
Kinktober 2025 Day Three: Threesome + Nipple Clamps
MDNI 18+
Pairing: Ghost x Gaz x Soap
CW: Objectification of Soap (referred to as he/it, and 'toy,'). Light degradation. Established Poly!Relationship. Bondage. Dom Ghost & Gaz. Bottom!Gaz. Top!Sub!Soap. Nipple play (nipple clamps). Arm restraints. Collar usage. Cock cage. Anal play/anal sex. Butt plug. Gag usage. Light spanking / impact play. This one sounds more extreme than it is lmao. Not Beta Read.
Bit late posting today, got sidetracked by another project I impulsively started lmao. I've started to make a Soap inspired loch ness monster plushie, but that's neither here nor there.
Anyway! Hope y'all enjoy.
As soon as they stepped into Kyle's flat, they could hear him whining. It was a rather pathetic sound, all drawn out and wobbly, like he couldn't help but interrupt himself. Still, they take their time, Kyle dutifully undoing the laces on his dress shoes as Simon shrugs out of his blazer, draping it over his arm, before reaching for his own shoes. "…Wasn't too bad, I 'suppose," he allows, following behind Kyle as he moves into the kitchen.
The corner of Kyle's mouth twitches, lifting up just enough to give Simon a flash of his dimples, "Oh sod off, you liked it. You know you did."
Letting out a slow breath, Simon tugged down his black face mask just to kiss him there; it was one of his favourite parts of the man, if he were to be honest with himself, "maybe." He lets out a little annoyed grunt as Kyle drifts away to pull a glass down from the cupboards just to fill it with tap water. "Didn't really get the end o'it though," he mumbles mostly to himself as he watches Kyle lean back against the kitchen counter, sipping at his water, "all'a them stayed dead, 'cept that doll one."
"Yeah well, tha's the point. S'a commentary on grief, mortality, and regrets. Doesn't work if they don't stay dead, it'd undermine the messa—" Another loud whine comes from the other room, interrupting Kyle, who simply huffs and shakes his head. They're both quiet, until the sounds peter off again. The glass cup clinks quietly as Kyle sets it down on the counter behind him, keeping his fingers resting loosely around the rim, "think our toy is properly warmed up for us yet?"
Simon lets his gaze drift from Kyle just long enough to glance at the clock on the stove, they've been gone for the better part of two hours, closer to three. "Hm. Wouldn't hurt nothin' t'leave it a bit longer," he says after a moment, "but we can check in on it if yer worried about it."
That earns him a scoff and a light punch to the arm, not that he finds himself bothered all too much about it, more pleased that Kyle's close enough again that Simon can rest his hands on Kyle's hips; it feels a bit wrong almost, the material of his shirt far too soft and expensive to be sullied by something like Simon's rough, scarred palms, though he supposed Kyle didn't mind, if the cheeky smile tugging at his lips and deepening his dimples is anything to go by. "Jus' don't want it gettin' impatient and breakin' somethin' again."
In the end, the potential annoyance of having to once more clean dozens of little shredded bits of silicone from their sheets again is what gets Simon to press a soft kiss to the corner of Kyle's mouth, before leading him out of the kitchen and towards their bedroom. "Still don't know how the fuck he managed ta to tha'," he grumbles.
"Christ knows," Kyle murmurs in turn, "lucky he didn't swallow chunks of the bloody thing."
"If he had you would've been the one taking him ta hospital, you gave him the bloomin' thing."
They bicker back and forth, drifting closer and closer until they're in their room, and Kyle is backing him up against the door with huffed, "pillock."
"Dickhead," Simon grouses in turn, sounding more fond than legitimately chastising. He barely gets the word out before Kyle's pulling on the back of his neck, forcing Simon's head lower as he catches his mouth in a messy kiss; even so it feels more like coming home than walking through the front door did. His hands return to Kyle's hips, Simon uses his thumbs to carefully untuck Kyle's shirt from his trousers, distantly he's aware of his blazer slipping from his arm and falling into a little crumpled heap on the floor.
Kyle's hands drift higher as he pulls back, his fingers work the straps of Simon's mask to take it off proper, tossing it vaguely in the direction of the dresser before Simon drifts forwards and kisses him again like the only air he can breathe has to be filtered through Kyle's lungs first. With each clumsy bump of their feet and press of his hands, Simon carefully guides Kyle backwards until they're both stumbling over each other onto the bed, just parting long enough to adjust for the new angle, Simon on his knees, straddling Kyle who's laid flat out on his back.
A pathetic whimper comes from the other side of the bed, up near the headboard, briefly forcing Simon's eyes open. He only steals a glance, but its enough to have him groaning into Kyle's mouth and rocking his hips down against his lap.
Johnny is right where they left him; arms strapped down, pinned against the mattress, a bridle gag stuffed in his mouth keeping his tongue down and held in place with a leather strap around his head to ensure he didn't just spit it out, there's a thin brown collar around the base of his throat, with long delicate golden chains that draped down the valley of his chest and ended in little clamps that pinched his nipples keeping them pert, the chains were a similar colour to his cock cage — which seemed to now have a steady dribble of precome drooling from it that wasn't there when they left. He makes a sound of protest around the gag as he squirms, trying to force their attention away from each other and onto him.
For now though Simon just focuses on Kyle, letting his hands wander anywhere they can reach as he dips his head mouthing at the crook of his throat. One of his hands drift lower, popping the button on Kyle's trousers and slipping into them just to play with the plug stuffed in his ass, lightly tugging on the flared base to draw it out just enough to push it back in again. "Fuckin' hell," Kyle huffs, his hands fisting the fabric of Simon's shirt, wrinkling it slightly, "tease."
"Jus' makin' sure you're relaxed enough t'play with our toy, sweet'eart." With that he presses a kiss to Kyle's jaw and draws back, "strip," he orders, Kyle rolls his eyes, but does as he's told, shedding his clothes piece by piece, letting them falls as they may on the floor. Simon stands up to move over towards Johnny, who's looking at him with unfocused wet eyes. He pulls open the nightstand drawer, picking up a little golden key that looks even smaller in comparison to his hand.
The bed creaks softly as he sits down on the edge. As soon as his hands drift near Johnny he begins to squirm, trying to push his body up into the touch. "Behave," Simon says, using his free hand to swat Johnny's ass, he whines, but settles enough that Simon can unlock his cock cage and take it off. Without the restriction, Johnny's cock swells quickly, twitching weakly as it grazes the inside of his leg, smearing his skin with his precome. Simon wraps his hand around Johnny's shaft, giving him a few good pumps to make sure he's fully hard, though when Johnny starts to grunt and buck up into his touch, Simon lets him go and swats him again, Johnny's entire body jerks, causing his chains to jingle pleasantly, "don't make me get your cock ring." Exhaling sharply Simon soothes over Johnny's ass with the flat of his hand as Johnny makes a broken sound and lets his head tip back. "S'all yers, luv."
Kyle shuffles closer, settling himself on Johnny's thighs with the ease of a prince taking his throne. He hooks one of his fingers around one of Johnny's chains, winding it around a few times before giving it a light tug, causing Johnny to shudder. "Think it's got much left in it?"
"Nah," Simon lazily undoes his belt as he settles against the headboard, he doesn't bother getting undressed, just shoves down his trousers and boxers enough to fist his cock, "better get as much as you can out of it before it breaks."
Shifting forwards on his knees, Kyle grabs Johnny's cock with his free hand — while the other still plays absently with the chain — and him up and leisurely sinking down onto him with a low sigh. Johnny's arms fight against his restraints, but he otherwise manages to stay put.
Johnny's hands curl into loose fists as he pants through his nose, bracing his feet against the mattress to angle his hips.
"Fuck—" Kyle groans, bracing his hand against the headboard to drop himself harder onto Johnny's cock, filling the room with the wet smack of skin on skin, and the steady rattle of metal, "jus' like that— yeah— shit."
When Simon catches a little furrow forming between Johnny's thick brows, and sees the little abortive twitches of his hips, he reaches over grabbing Kyle by the arm pulling them apart, and causing both men to whine in complaint. "None'a tha' now," he notches the head of his dick against Kyle's hole, letting out a low groan as he gently pushes into him, between the plug and Johnny's cock stretching him out, it doesn't take too much work for him to bottom out, "he's in trouble, yeah? Don't want him gettin' off too easy now, do we?"
Kyle gives a noncommittal grunt, sliding his hands over Simon's chest, squeezing the muscle as he rolls his hips, fucking himself on Simon's cock. "Well then, we ought t'give him a proper show then, yeah? Let him know what he's missing out on."
While Johnny makes a weak sound in protest, Simon just smiles, letting his hands settle on Kyle's hips to guide his movements, "Rog tha', luv."
Thanks for reading!
Soap's in trouble for jerking off into some of Gaz's underwear and Ghost's masks then not cleaning up and ruining them btw, if any of y'all were curious, lmao.
Pairing: Price x Amab!Reader (Reader is described as having a cock + balls, and is referred to as 'lad,' once by Price).
CW: Smut, obviously. Light Dub-Con / CNC. Primal play. Sort-of rough sex. Frotting. Porn-with-light-plot. Longer than it should be, and abrupt ending to avoid it being even longer, sorry y'all. Biting. Pinning. Semi-public. Outdoor sex (in the woods). Reader is into foraging. Probably inaccurate foraging depictions. Established relationship. Not Beta Read.
I very much deviated from the prompt. This is more so primal play with a very light kidnapping section. Whoops. Not entirely happy with how this one came out tbh, but oh well. Practice is practice, yeah?
Hope y'all enjoy it anyway lol.
The cover was smooth where it pressed against your skin, and the spine — marred by a wavering crack from where you had bent it a bit too far over and over — was tucked neatly into the palm of your hand, its weight familiar and assuring, the texture of the paper against your thumb, wedged between the pages to hold your spot grounding you as you moved. Your eyes were rooted to the forest floor, searching, as leaves crunched under your heel with every step, despite your best attempts to remain light footed.
A soft breath passed your lips as your eyes lock on a brief glimps of white, which has you crouching down; the bag you brought with you bumps against your hip as you do. Using your free hand you carefully brush leaves out of the way, and press the back of your hand up against some lower branches of a bush, revealing a small cluster of mushrooms. You set your guidebook down just long enough to break the cluster off at the base of the stem, and drag them into the light.
It's a bit of a feat to not crush your forage or your book as you stand back up, but you manage. A small focused frown pulls at the corners of your mouth as you examine the mushrooms, comparing them to the diagram and notes in your guide. Normally you wouldn't have needed it, after having taken such care to learn what was and wasn't safe to eat in the woods around your flat, but with your mind partially elsewhere, you weren't going to risk going without it.
While you normally foraged on your own, today your partner had managed to convince you let him accompany you, with one stipulation.
He had to catch you first.
Initially you had just made a comment about him having to catch you jokingly as you went through the well-worn steps of getting ready, packing yourself a small snack and filling up your water bottle, John hovering near the edge of your shared kitchen, watching you move about with crossed arms and a soft frown. The comment was something off-handed, meant to temper his usual concerns about you treking off on your own into the woods. Though the laugh that had been about to pass your lips fizzled into dead weight on the back of your tongue as soon as you caught the look in his eyes, sharp and alert, cut with the undertone of something heavier that edged around the familair glint of want into something with far more teeth. It alone had your feet momentarily sticking to your kitchen tile as he drew closer, gaze still fixed on you.
His hand had settled at the small of your back, after he had hiked up the hem of your shirt for it to rest against your skin, the palm of his hand was rough, grounding, and firm. He had leaned in close enough that his beard had lightly brushed against the shell of your ear, scraping the skin softly, "I've caught a lot worse than you with a lot less, luv," his voice was steady and low, as he squeezes you slowly, as if assessing the muscles underneath, "won't take much to hunt you down. But if tha'll convince 'ya tha' it's not safe fer y'ta be wandering the woods, fine."
With an unsteady sigh, you tuck your prize safely into your bag, and continue deeper into the woods, your heart beating loudly in your ears as adrenaline thrums through your veins, buzzing at the end of your fingers, and making you acutely aware of everything around you, hitching your breath at every crunch of foliage.
You had no idea where John was.
When you had left that morning, he was still sat in his favourite chair, reading glasses resting low on his nose as he thumbed through whatever mass-produced paperback that had managed to catch his eye the last time you both had popped down to the shops together. For a moment you had paused, standing on your doormat and looking across the room expectantly. He hadn't bothered to look up, merely waving you off dismissively and grunting something half-unintelligable about allowing you a head start.
That surely had to have been hours ago by now, with how high the sun had crept into the sky. John could be anywhere, and knowing that made an omnipresent sense of unease burrow deep into your skin, crawling along your bones like a skittish beatle, never settling, and making you glance over your shoulder at every little noise. Yet as you went deeper into the woods, you couldn't deny the hesitant excitement flitting after it.
Perhaps it was a bit foolish — it most certainly was — but some part of you thought you could do it, that you could loose him and make it back to the flat before he could catch you. You've been careful, after all, sticking to the thicker underbrush, where you had more cover, and were doing your best to move through the woods unobtrusively.
It was better than thinking about what would happen if you were caught, at least.
Another small cluster of mushrooms catches your eye, and you carefully crouch down to inspect it. They were odd— immensely so. The tops were a bit off, wrinkled, and you've never seen this variety before in this area, but you recognized them anyway. Not just in the sense you knew what kind they were, you had quite literally seen them before sitting in a package in your fridge.
When you hesitantly reached out to touch them they pulled out of the ground with ease, leaving a visible little hole in the ground behind, rimmed with loose soil. A frown pulls at your lips for a moment as you stare at the cluster a bit bemused.
Then it clicks.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck.
You drop it immediately to scramble back onto your feet.
It's already too late.
An arm wraps around your throat, yanking you backwards as a gloved hand presses roughly over your mouth, scraping against your skin.
Blood rushes through your ears as you're dragged.
You claw at the arm over your throat, causing John to grunt roughly in your ear before jerking your entire body back against his chest with a rough tug. "Didn't even fuckin' try, did you pet?" He says through his teeth.
Between the arm locked around you, the hand pressed tightly over the lower half of your face, and the desperate gulps of air your body is attempting to suck in, it's rather hard for you to breathe, making you a bit light headed. Perhaps that's why you decide it's a good idea to try biting his hand.
Which earns you a rough hiss of, "ungrateful little bastard," low against the shell of your ear, and a rough squeezing hold over your jaw as John moves his hand to squeeze it shut, digging the pads of his fingers into the flesh of your cheeks.
It's uncomfortable, but you can breathe somewhat better now. So you just huff through your nose at him in annoyance.
"Should be thankful I'm the one that bloody caught you," he grumbles, dragging you backwards further and further even as you kick and wriggle, trying to get out of the hold, "runnin' through the fuckin' woods half cocked. Always on the same goddamn path, leaving a picked trail behind you. Yer basically fuckin' begging fer some prick to come along and scoop you up." You try hitting at him with your field guide, which gets it snatched away from you and your wrists grabbed and forced behind your back.
John shoves you up against a tree, pressing you flush against his body, and stuffing a thick thigh between your legs to keep you there as he lets go of your neck. "Enough of tha'," he growls, squeezing your wrists in warning.
You're deep enough into the woods now that you don't recognize your surroundings.
Shit.
"Let me go, John."
"Not until I'm finished."
"You've made your point." Having to sit through one of his lectures would just be salt in the wound gouged into your pride.
"Clearly I haven't," his hand, now sans your foraging guide, slips under the hem of your shirt, the pads of the gloves scrape against your abdomen, forcing your breath to stutter briefly as your stomach dips under his touch, "or else you wouldn't still be doing this shit."
Having his fingers brushing back and forth, while occasionally dipping lower, as if your happy trail was just another path for him to chase you down, makes it a tad bit harder for you to focus on the argument, but you do your best. Still being annoyed at John helps, even if the adrenaline still buzzing through your body makes his touch feel loud and searing. "It's a hobby," you grit, "I'm allowed to have hobbies."
"'Course you are," he allows, as if that's even remotely something he gets to decide, you've never particularly wanted to punch him before, presently you're contemplating a change in heart, "but yer not allowed to be a bloody muppet about it." Your belt buckle jingles softly as he undoes it with one hand, and your traitor of a cock twitches at the sound, long since Pavlov'd into the association of getting off with John pressed this close, and breathing against the side of your neck. As he keeps talking he shoves your trousers down so they're hanging around your knees. "World's full'a dangerous cunts, and here you are, runnin' around the fuckin' woods with no sense of awareness, and no self-defence skills."
Heat crawls up the back of your neck, and you can feel it burning the tops of your ears, your heart's hammering so hard you can just barely still hear John's grumbling, as he shoves his thigh between yours harder, using his hold on your crossed wrists to force you to rock against his leg. "I can take care of myself," you protest, the words slightly unsteady even to your own ears.
"You can't," John roughly yanks you back against his chest, rolling his hips forwards against your ass, you can feel his cock, thick and insistent pressing into you, already hard, he sighs roughly, like he's forcing air out from the bottom of his lungs, "but I'll train it into you soon enough." His hand slips down into your boxers, lazily taking your half-hard cock into his hand and running his fingers over the base of your shaft. "When we're done here, I'm giving you self defence lessons, and we'll keep on it two times a week until I deem you solid, understood?"
It'd be embarrassing how fast you're fattening in John's hand, if you were in any state of mind to be embarrassed, presently all you can do is think about staining his gloves with your cum, and biting down on the groan that bubbles up in the back of your throat at the thought.
Well, it's all you can think about up until he squeezes your wrists roughly, and bites at the crook of your neck, as he forces his hips forward, grinding his cock against you. "Answer me."
"Yes," you manage, the words tying themselves up in knots on your tongue as he rolls your balls in the palm of his hand, "yes sir, I understand."
"There's a good lad," he coos, "now let's make sure you can't forget your promise, yeah?"
Somewhere in between the time it takes you to blink and your brain to pay attention to anything other than the feel of John pumping your cock, you've ended up on your back on the forest floor, trousers and boxers fully discarded as John impatiently shoves his clothes down enough to free his own cock, letting out a little grumble of relief as he takes you both into his hand stroking you both quick and messy— glove now discarded to fuck knows where.
Now that your hands are free you reach up, threading your fingers in his hair to yank his head down, catching his mouth in a rough kiss that's more teeth and biting than anything tender. You're still mildly pissed at him for dragging you through the woods, and you're not going to let him forget that anytime soon either. "You're a fucking asshole," you pant, even as the muscles in your legs tense, and you plant your feet on the ground to thrust up into his fist, the head of your cock keeps catching on John's and its driving you a bit mad.
John braces his other arm beside your head, and his beard scruffs your skin as he mouths at where your jaw meets your throat, its still a bit sore from how he grabbed you earlier and you can't help but groan. "You're the one that bit me," he says, as if that justifies anything.
"You abducted me! The hell was I supposed to do? Just take it?" Perhaps a bit petulantly, you yank on his hair, just to hear him grunt.
With a rather put-upon sigh, he lazily rolls his hips into his hold, the opposing movement makes your own falter. The corner of his mouth twitches, you can feel it with how he's pressed against your skin. "No, 'suppose not. It's a good thing I like you with a bit of fight in you then, innit?"
"I hate you."
That just earns you a pleased chuckle, you can feel how it buzzes through John's chest, jostling you both with how you're wrapped together. His thumb swipes over the head of your cock, playing with the precome bubbling from your slit, watching how it keeps you connected even as he draws his thumb back. "Sure you do pet."
Thanks for reading!
Is it obvious this is one of the ones I started in September? Lmao.
Kinktober 2025 Day One: Masturbation + Orgasm Control
MDNI 18+
Pairing: König x Gn!Afab!Reader (Reader is described as having a clit & folds, and is shorter than König, otherwise no physically descriptive features, no gendered terms for reader)
CW: Smut, obviously. Porn with little-to-no plot. Dom!Reader, Sub!König. Mutual masturbation. Edging. Semi-public sex (they're in a storage closet, so). Not Beta Read.
I'm going to try to do an entry for every prompt (whether with a full-proper oneshot, or just a smaller sized entry) but if I start to loose steam, I might just do posts for my favourite prompts. We'll just have to see what happens lmao.
Either way hope y'all enjoy.
The shelf rattles, sending a bottle of eletric blue cleaner clattering to the ground, nearly breaking it and causing the liquid inside to bubble in annoyance. "Easy now," you hiss as König's body jerks again, though his elbow doesn't hit the underside of the shelving unit that he's backed up against quite as hard as it had previously, you still give his cock a pointed squeeze in warning, "if you can't control yourself then I'm going to stop, bug."
König makes an odd little choked sound, and his eyes narrow, in the low light of the singular hanging bulb you can just barely make out the way they've begun to water. "No—" his fingers flex stiffly, curling around the edge of the shelf that's pressing at the small of his back, it takes him a moment and a slow deep breath in to press down the edge of desperation in his voice, "no, please. I… I will do better, Liebling. Please continue."
You loosen your grip on his cock, lazily dragging your fingers up the heavy shaft, while tracing along one of the thick veins and using the pad of your thumb to rub at the underside of the head, just to watch as precome uncertianly dribbles from his slit. Low in the back of your throat you hum, looking over his body fairly obviously as you pretend to consider the request, "… I don't know, you don't need to come that bad now, do you?" Leaning closer to rest your head against his shoulder and sigh against the base of his throat, just to watch the shudder that rolls through his body, "and my arm is rather tired," as you talk your movements soften, until your touch is barely ghosting over his cock, and it twitches pathetically while it continues to drool, as if trying to entice you to stroke him properly, "I don't know if I have enough energy left ito get you to finish."
Utter bullshit, you were feeling perfectly fine— but it must be at least somewhat convincing to König's worked-up mind, because he lets out a broken whine. The sound pulls at the corners of your mouth and you turn your face into his shoulder a bit more to hide your smirk before it gives away your bluff.
It's been a rather busy couple of weeks for you both, barely having the time to even be in the same room together, let alone get off properly. There was no way in hell König wasn't pent up by now, and you intended to take full advantage of it.
Just to dig it in that little bit more you give him one proper — albeit leisurely — downstroke, like you're using him as an oversized stress toy instead of actively trying to make him feel good, and once you reached the base of his cock, you squeeze him again, "I want to come too, you know; It's hardly fair if you get to and then I don't have any energy left to take care of myself."
From this angle, you get to watch as he carefully turns that over in his mind, bringing the slightest hint of sharpness to his previously unfocused gaze. One of his hands gingerly releases the shelf, and finds a new home at the button of your fatigues, thumbing it tentatively. "I… Could help you too," he murmurs, tilting his head down to meet your eyes.
You catch the edge of your bottom lip between your teeth, working the soft flesh absently. It's not what you necessarily had in mind, but as your gaze flicks down and you watch the callous pad of his thumb roll back and forth over the metal fastening — as if he's already imaginging that it's you under his touch — you find yourself having less and less reason to protest the suggestion.
Instead of answering properly, you merely widen your stance so he can pop open your trousers and slip his hand inside.
"No undergarments?" His middle finger dips between your folds, gathering some of your slick before sliding back up, pressing gently against your already hardened and aching clit, petting over it in a way that has a muscle in your thighs jumping.
"I'm out," you supply, resuming your lazy strokes over his cock, "haven't had the chance to do laundry."
König makes a soft noise of upset that's quick to falter into a whimper when you roll back his foreskin to expose more of his cockhead to play with, "you should have told me," he grumbles pausing his minstrations just long enough to repremandingly pinch your inner thigh, "I would have done it for you."
"I'm perfectly capible of taking care of myself, bug," with a huff, you use your free hand to squeeze his sack, drawing both your hands back when he groans and pushes his hips forward. You do that over and over, each time he pushes forwards, or stops working over your clit, you pull away, until he's panting and whining. His free hand finds your hip, digging his fingers into your body as he tugs you closer— though when he realizes he's being a bit rough he almost instantly lightens his touch again, rubbing apologtic little circles into the fabric of your trousers.
He gives weak little thrusts into the loose ring of your hand with a grunt. "Ja, I am aware," under his breath he grumbles something in german as he forces his hips back against the shelf, and sighs softly in relief as you start pumping his cock again, "it does not matter, I still want to take care of you."
Rolling your eyes you stroke him hard and fast, the sound of skin on skin feeling so much louder in the small space with how he's panting in your ear. When you feel his cock throb and his body tense, you pull back again, causing him to make an almost pained sound as his hips roll, trying desperatly to get friction. Precome drools from the head of his cock, dribbling onto the tile and making a mess between your spread boots. "We'll see how you feel about that when I'm done with you," you murmur, mouthing at the bit of exposed skin between the collar of his shirt, and the hem of his mask.
By the time you both slip back out of the supply closet, you're looking thoroughly pleased with yourself, and König's steps are unsteady as he trails after you like a puppy on a leash.
Ao3 Version (not available yet) - MDNI 18+ - CoD / MW2 themed - Not Beta Read
I've never been able to finish a kinktober before, but there's a first time for everything, yeah? Ima just try my best and see what happens, lmao, I already have my rough ideas down, so it's just a matter of actually writing everything.
This will be a multi-ship kinktober list. Some days will only have two characters, some will have three, and a couple I have planned will have most/all of them.
Please note: There is no character who is present on every single day.
Included characters are, Soap, Price, Gaz, Ghost, König, and gn!reader (amab, afab, + full netural, IE no genital mentions at all).
Based on this kinktober list.
Will be updated as I finish & post things, probably won't be updated in order. List is likely subject to change as I work through the prompts & figure out what will/won’t work together.
The Prompts
Masturbation + Orgasm control - König / (Afab) Reader
Kidnapping - Price / (Amab) Reader
Threesome + Nipple Clamps - Gaz / Soap / Ghost
Voyeurism - Ghost / (Gn) Reader
Finger sucking + Dacryphilia - Price / Soap
Outdoor sex + Intoxication - Gaz / (ftm) Reader
Blindfolds + Bloodplay - Price / (Amab) Reader
Webcam + Cages - Soap / (Gn) Reader
Exhibitionism - König / (Amab) Reader
Oral sex + Punishment + CNC - Price / Ghost
Come licking + Somnophilia - Gaz / Soap
Kneeling -Gaz / Ghost
Dildos + Dom bottom / sub top - Soap / (Afab) Reader
Omegaverse + Possessive sex + Choking/gagging - Price / Gaz / (Amab) Reader
Semi-public - Ghost / (Gn) Reader
Remote control - Price / Gaz
Messy sex - Ghost / (Amab) Reader
Uniform kink - Ghost / Soap
Creampie - (Afab) Reader / Gaz
Mirror sex - Soap / Ghost
Rimming + Forced orgasm + Monsterfucking - Soap / Gaz
Quiet sex + Crawling + Gunplay - Price / Soap
Biting + Praise kink - (Gn) Reader / König
Anal sex + Gags - Gaz / König
Double penetration - Price / Gaz / Soap / Ghost
Lingerie - Ghost / Price
Hair pulling + animal play + Gangbang - Soap / Price / Gaz / Ghost / König
EVERYONE BE CAREFUL. ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN PHISHING SITE (first link)
(the link is purple bc i clicked on it to get the link w/o special characters to report to various phising page report places).
the page leads to what appears to be the normal archive page, w/ the popup about the privacy policy & everything, with the url https://xn--iao3-lw4b.ws/media DO NOT LOG IN. THEY ARE HERE TO STEAL YOUR LOGIN CREDENTIALS. LOOK AT URLS BEFORE ENTERING ANY PERSONAL INFO.
CW: Uhhh… Smut with a lil’ plot (sort of, if you squint it's mostly just set dressing lmao). Sub!König. Kinda semi-public? They’re in the barracks, so. Very light fluff. Boot humping. Mild humilation kink. Very, very, light choking (reader has their hand on König's throat to guide him a bit), Dom!Gn!Operator!Reader (Only implied descriptor is that they're shorter than König, but he's like, 6'5" so like... y'know). Prob some military inaccuracies. Implied!Established relationship. Not beta read.
MDNI 18+
WC: ~1.9k
AO3 Version
Been reading and looking at a lot of fanart w/König in it for the fic I’m writing— and now I have ideas™️ about him.
(His cadence might be a bit shite, I tried my best with his dialogue, honest, I just have little to no frame of reference for an Austrain accent so, apologies)
Rain pelts the windows of the barracks like it has a personal vendetta against the place, throughout the day it has been slowly turning the grounds of the base into a useless sludge. You had barely gotten back from the armoury and had just made it to your quarters and sat down — with a freshly completed inventory checklist that was now tossed onto your desk, and mirrored by the half-filled requisition forms still waiting for you impatiently on the other side — when he trudges in, ducking slightly to fit through the doorway.
In the time it takes you to cap your pen and turn your desk chair towards the door, he's already crossed the room and kneeling at your feet; his muddy boots leaving a trail in his wake. "König—"
With a heavy sigh he crumples forwards, folding as much of his upper body as he can manage onto your lap. His fatigues are rain-soaked, and droplets cling to his arms and hands, dampening your own clothes everywhere he presses himself. Both of his sturdy hands squeeze your sides as he buries his face against your abdomen, even his executioner’s hood hadn't managed to escape the rain's wrath, the fabric heavy and waterlogged, chilling your skin through the wet spot it was creating on your shirt.
His shoulders are tense under your hand as you gently rest it against his back. "... You're going to waterboard yourself doing that." Your other hand gently trails along the hem of his mask, making no moves to remove it, despite the potential safety hazard it posed.
"Good," his voice is thick with frustration as he presses even closer, seemingly trying to merge you together, "at least then I would be not have to lead this latest batch of rookies." König's hands bunch up the material of your shirt, pushing the excess fabric between the gaps of his fingers. "They do not listen."
It's all you can do to swallow down the huff forming in the back of your throat. "Call me selfish, but I'd really rather you didn't croak in here," you reach over him, pulling open a desk drawer, and fishing out one of König's spare masks that have begun to slowly migrate and mix into your things over the past few months, "don't need half of medical in my room trying to drag your big sorry arse out." Pinching the clean fabric between your thumb and your forefinger, you dangle it in front of König's face as you turn your head to the side, focusing your gaze on where your spare boots are laying on their side by the door.
After a second or so, you feel one of his hands ease away from you, and the fresh mask is tugged on lightly, once, twice, before it slips from your hold. Your eyes wander to your closet, door open enough to see your clean fatigues, book-ended by the few civvies you kept on base. It's not anything particularly notable, really, they were the same duds you usually drug back and forth on deployment, you knew every fold. crease, and stain in each article, but it was enough to keep you occupied until he was finished.
"... Danke, Liebling." König murmurs, as he gently presses the wet fabric into your still open hand. Without thinking much of it, you toss it towards the opening of your laundry bag, before it even lands your attention is already back on him.
This was the fourth time this week he's comeback from training like this, frayed and tense.
König isn't the type of man to ask for help, gets far too caught up in his head for that sort of thing; not that it stopped you from trying to anyways. Thankfully you've gotten very good at picking between the lines that comprised König, finding every gap and fissure he ignores, gradually learning where to step around, and where to press to carefully weave him back together.
Of course, easing him out of his head into something much softer and fuzzy made things easier, it stopped him from drifting away, helped him relax.
Your hands find whereabouts you think his jaw is through the mask, holding his head steady as you lean forwards to press a kiss to his forehead through the fabric. When he only hums softly at the affection, you do it again, and again until the tension ebbs from his body and his blue eyes are hidden away by eyeblack smeared lids. One of your hands drifts lower, tucking where König's jaw meets his throat in the groove between your forefinger and thumb, gently using pressure to tilt his head back so your mouth can find his.
Each press of your lips catches against his mask. It’s soft, gentle, at least until your tongue darts out, smoothing over his mouth as you hold him still, and leaving a dark patch in it's wake, your spit catches the low light of your quarters in a way that makes the wet fabric glimmer in a way that's rather eye catching, "so pretty for me," you say softly so that the words can't drift farther than the hairbreadth of space between you both. With the pad of your thumb you smooth over the dampened patch, and the low groan König lets out has you closing the distance again.
No matter how long the kisses drag out, or how hungry they get, neither of you reach to take off his mask, not even when his breath stutters and starts to sound more like panting, or when the fabric becomes sullied from both of you trying to lick into each other's mouths through it.
It's only when you feel his thick fingers tugging on the front of your shirt, trying to pull you onto the floor into his lap, do you draw back again. He trails after you for a second, until you gently squeeze his throat. His eyes flutter open, already unfocused as they dart between your eyes, and your lips, you know that they’re likely shiny from your own spit and kiss swollen from the way he had been mouthing at you. "None of that, now," with your other hand you press against his collarbone until he sits back on his heels, there's something addictive about feeling the way his chest heaves under your touch, like these scraps of your affection have already begun to tug at his seams, "use your words, bug."
Under his breath he grumbles something in German — that you let slide for the moment — and tips his head back. You let him compose himself, swiping your thumb over the column of his throat absently, smiling when you feel the muscles shift under your touch as he swallows. Eventually he does manage to get the words out, though they're low and soft, "I need you."
"Manners," you correct with a click of your tongue off the roof of your mouth. Getting him to fully ebb from his Colonel mindset always took a bit of plying on his high-strung days, when he got far too used to keeping an iron clad grip on himself, all bluntness and chipped edges, but you weren't going to give up so easily.
You hear him kiss his teeth before he tries again, "please," his hands squeeze you, and you can tell by the way his biceps flex that he's fighting the urge to pull you closer to him. Not successfully, mind, as he drags you in your desk chair flusher to his body, forcing you to brace one foot on the ground beside his thick thigh, as the other tucks between his legs, pressing the toe of your boot against where he's straining the front of his trousers.
Hm.
Experimentally, you drag the sole of your shoe along the length of his cock, pressing down on his tip in a way that has his breath catching and his muscles jumping. "Are you sure? Doesn't exactly sound that way from up here." You point your foot downwards so you can slip the top of your boot under his sack, before arching it up and disinterestedly swaying your boot back and forth, as if just incidentally rubbing against him.
His hands drop to your thighs, squeezing them like they're the only thing keeping him grounded as his hips give little abortive twitches, grinding his shaft against the curve of your ankle and your calf. "Scheiße— Liebling, I..." Under his breath he hisses something in German, you can't make it out but the way his lashes flutter and the tone he hisses it in, you feel fairly assured that its some curse word or another, it takes him a moment before he can speak in a language you understand again, but you can see it in his eyes that his mind is whirring double-time to remember the words he wants, "be assured that I need you. Very much. Please."
While you make a show of sighing, and tilting his head this way and that, as if trying to see if he's being honest, you're already tugging him back up onto his knees, pressing your leg harder against his cock. "Show me then; work for it."
With a groan, König drops his head forward, hiding his face against your abdomen as his hands slip down to your knees, as he hesitantly rolls his hips, grinding himself against you, his strong muscles flex and roll with precise control, as if he's worried about overdoing it. Even with the layers separating you from each other, you can feel how his body is radiating heat. Though it's hard to tell if it's from embarrassment or just from the nature of what he's doing.
You let him carry on like that for a second or two, just for him to get a feel for it, before you're tipping his head back again as you tut, "want to see you, bug," the admission is simple, unambiguous, but it still has König letting out a broken little noise as he closes his eyes once more— his hips give a particularly rough jerk, disrupting his already unsteady rhythm, “want to see how much my gorgeous boy falls apart for me.” König’s fingers tighten around your knees, but he doesn’t hide his face again.
Whenever he seems to find a comfortable rhythm, you shift your leg, changing the angle and making him let out a whine, as he tries to find it all over again. Tears begin to bead König's lashes by the time you lean closer and press another kiss to his mouth through his mask, you swallow down all the half-broken sounds that manage to slip past his lips.
In the small lulls where he tries to catch his breath, you whisper soft assurances against his cheek. Your hand slides lower, slipping between your bodies to lazily slide your hand into his trousers, dragging the pad of your finger over where the head of his cock was drooling into his boxers.
There wasn't anything sweeter you could think of than the way he whimpers and rocks into your hand. He's so worked up that it only takes a few strokes before his hips jerk harshly as he groans, spilling into his boxers and pressing up against your hand hard enough that your desk chair rolls back; though his hold on your knees stops you from going too far.
As he catches his breath, you lean in to press another kiss to his temple, softer this time. "I'm sorry you had a shit day, bug."
König just grunts, eyes unfocused and warm as he stares up at you, taking in every little detail of your face that he can manage to while his hips still twitch with the aftershocks, his thumb stroking the inside of your knee. "... It's much better now, Liebling."
Finally wrote a man that was literally wet and sopping.
Apologies if this was a bit shit, I'm still toying with my characterization for König (there's not a lot of canon for me to pick at, lmao).
Lmk what y'all thought, and feel free to send me an ask or a writing request.
CW: This is just straight-up smut— PWP. Reader is a bottom, but nothing is implied past that. Bratty sub-ish Soap, as always. Gn! pet names for reader (luv, luvvy, that sort of thing). Light (sort of) pup!Soap, because I have no self-control. No use of y/n, not beta read.
MDNI 18+
Bottom!Gn!Reader - Bratty-subby!Top!Soap - Kinda pre-established relationship? Whatever it is, it's messy lmao.
Ao3 Version
To the surprise of no-one, I am once again being abnormal about Soap. (I just need to gnaw on him a little, it'd totally fix me, I swear.)
Basically I had a stray thought of prone bone w/Soap and I'm inflicting y'all with it too. (Holy shit I wrote way more for this than I meant to.)
He's always had a bit of a reputation for being a mutt, known for his teasing words and frequent smirks for anyone he found easy on the eyes. It was the sort of thing that hung over your head incessantly whenever this had first started happening; the sort of looming feeling that he might simply wander off after the next shiny thing that caught his attention.
Now though? The idea seemed completely ridiculous.
Johnny groaned, low and breathy against the shell of your ear, before his head dropped lower, and he gently nosed at the nape of your neck, pressing a few, slow kisses there. Everywhere you were pressed together was warm, like Johnny had just wandered out of the smouldering ash of a campfire, and decided the first thing he had to do was find his way into your room to press your body down into your rack, trying his best to mould himself to the dip of your back. Your skin was already slick with sweat, dampening the blankets beneath you— not that Johnny seemed to mind, with the way his tongue would occasionally slip past his lips to lave at you, always followed by a praising murmur said so softly against the line of your shoulders that you can't quite make out his words, or a pleased huff that’d send a little shiver through you.
Both of his scarred, calloused hands were holding your hips firmly, as if he thought you might slip right through the mattress if he stopped touching you for even a second. He was squeezing you gently under his hands in time with each shallow rock of his hips, pulling out just enough that he could grind back into you.
Most of his weight was resting on his knees, nestled snuggly between your legs— they were spread just enough for him to rest comfortably between them and bent to lock behind Johnny's. Though the ‘locking’ really just surmounted to you using your heels and the tops of your feet to urge him closer, even though he was already pressed flush to you, with his cock buried as far as it could go.
It felt like everything and not enough all at once.
“Needed this,” Johnny confesses to the side of your neck, nudging you with the tip of his nose to get you to tilt your head to the side, baring more of your neck for him to mouth at with quiet reverence, “needed ye s’bad luvvy. Missed ye.” Both of his hands drag inwards, fingers splaying so that his thumbs press into the small of your back, just feeling you.
John MacTavish may be a shameless mutt, but he was a damn loyal one.
Even as something softens in your chest — the very same thing that’s been steadily expanding for weeks now, the one that you’ve been ignoring even as your breath catches against it in your throat, or as it grows warmer in these quiet moments you manage to steal from the rest of the world — you can’t help but to laugh at him, it’s a stifled thing, layered in thinly veiled fondness. “We were only away from each other for the better part of a week, Johnny,” hardly the longest time you’ve been separated.
He lets out a sort of choked, frustrated noise as he buries himself as deep as he can manage, grinding against something inside you that causes sparks behind your eyes, leaving your brain fuzzy and has you feeling short of breath. “Still tae fuckin’ long," the words are barely audible, you would've missed if he weren't so close, "hate bein' away from ye." Using his legs he gently nudges your hips higher as his little grinds pick up into unsteady little humps— after how slow he had been going, the sudden quick little pushes are almost overwhelming; they’re just strong enough to force you to use your arm to brace against the mattress, if only so he doesn't smush you face-first into your pillow. "Should be'a fuckin' crime."
With your free hand you manage to reach up and behind yourself, tangling in the base of his mohawk near his nape and pulling his head back, scruffing him. The way his movements falter sends the familiar heady sensation of control through you. "You're being awfully greedy for a bloke who hasn't gotten me to come yet."
As soon as the words leave your mouth you can feel his hand trace along your hips, it would seem purely affectionate, if it weren't for the way it slips between you and your mattress, finding a comfortable home between your legs. His fingers gliding over you is fairly distracting, enough that your hold on him loosens just enough for Johnny to turn his head, grazing his lips against your inner wrist. His stubble is rough against your skin, not that you find yourself minding all that much. "M'sorry, luv," he murmurs, even though he sounds like a breathless, kicked puppy, a little pleased smirk twitches at the corners of his mouth where it's pressed against your skin, "Ye feel s'good ah cannae help meself, missed ye s'much— m'tryin' ma best. "
Gone for a week and he gets a bloody complex. Unbelievable.
You pull him closer, letting your hand wander from his hair to his jaw to tilt his head as you turn your own. The first brush of your lips is soft, almost ghosting. Johnny presses even closer to kiss you — his body warm and solid against your own — it's messy undoubtably, the angle makes it awkward, your noses bump together, and his over-eagerness makes him miss at first, kissing the edge of your top lip, but it gets him to melt all the same, focusing on the press of your lips so much that he rests more of his weight down on you.
When he starts getting too eager, trying to lick into your mouth, you pull him back again, forcing a broken whine from his throat— then you nip at his bottom lip, just to get him to do it again. He trails after you, trying to lure you into kissing him more, deeper, but you keep your hold firm enough that he can't. “Thought I had trained you better than this,” you murmur.
His gaze drifts over your face, lingering on your mouth, until you tug on him again, forcing his eyes to meet yours. A crooked little smile pulls at his lips, he knows what he's doing, knows what you'll do if he keeps it up, or at least he seems to think so anyway. There's that glint in his eyes that he gets right before he makes a smart-ass comment, so before he can even form the first syllable you move— shifting your hips forwards so that his cock slips out of you in one long drag. As he whimpers at the loss, you shift, nudging him onto his back as you settle between his legs.
Both of Johnny's arms settle above his head, crossing over each other at his forearms, with his hands limp where they're pressed up against the headboard, and his cock is hard and heavy against his thigh, the tip drooling pre-come into the seam where his leg meets his hip. You slide your hands underneath his thighs guiding them up over your shoulders as you lay on your stomach once more. "Suppose I ought to give you a refresher on keeping your patience then, until it sticks properly."
"Aye, suppose ye can try."
More Soap smut? What a shocking turn of events. Truly unprecedented behaviour from that-one-guy-who’s-only-posted-smut-for-Soap, lmao.
Still don’t find it as easy as writing angst or fluff, but I think I’m getting better at it. So y'know, baby steps or whatever. Lmk what y'all think. :>
I was working on the outline for my Kelpie!Soap AU (At Your Service), and while I was doing research it just now clicked for me that Graves' name is a fucking pun while I was looking at his wiki page.
Phillip Graves.
Fill-up Graves.
For fuck's sake.
I literally have no one to blame for this but myself.
CW: Nothin much— just me being abnormal about Ghost’s mask again, because amidst all my WIPs and shit I have to do, that’s apparently where my brain wants to focus rn.
Hiya. Hullo. I’ve got a lot of deadlines coming up that I’m procrastinating. So you know what that means?
✨More Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley mask headcannons✨ ft. me yapping about two of my WIPs at the very end (one Ghoap, and one König x reader).
(I stg masks aren’t even my thing, they just give me so many brain worms for no good reason.)
So I’ve yapped about Ghost wearing a mask when he’s on leave before— but I’ve got a new HC about it.
He doesn’t wear one of those black medical masks just to hide his facial scarring.
That’s a part of it, of course. Sometimes he just wants to keep his head down and get whatever he needs from the shops without having some bright eyed kid staring blatantly at the scars marring his face like they haven’t seen anything like it before (they probably haven’t. He doesn’t blame them for it, he remembers when he was first well enough to stumble from his bed in medical towards the nearest bathroom, and just stared and stared at the messy stitches going from the middle of his cheekbone, just below his eye, and curved down to the now missing chunk of his top lip). Or someone older than him poorly concealing their harsh whispers with a slight turn of their head towards whoever they were shopping with.
But that’s not the only reason.
Another was that — not that’d he’d ever willfully admit it — he felt far too exposed without it these days. In the rare times he did go without it, it made his skin crawl, like he was skulking down the streets without any shoes on. Didn’t feel somewhat settled until he gave in and put it back on, or managed to make it back to his under decorated flat, away from the world and any too curious eyes.
But if he was truly being honest with himself?
He couldn’t hide his expression for shit. An unfortunate caveat of wearing a mask all the time, is he’s gotten far too complacent with the face that people cannot see most of his face. Oftentimes he finds himself frowning or scowling at bad calls made by other soldiers, or his upper lip twisting in distain, pulling on his scar tissue rather uncomfortably, a reflexive reaction to watching the greenies almost do themselves in by something utterly stupid.
It’s not like he’s incapable of doing so if he needs to, but it takes a conscious effort on his part. Which, unfortunately, transferred to the rare times he was without a mask, too.
And, honestly, it’s easier to wear the ruddy mask than to nearly get kicked out of the closest Greggs to his flat again, because some poor bird thought he was pulling faces at her (which he’s sure is quite the sight with how his scars pull and pin his skin— he’s never checked, doesn’t want to know if it’s as bad as he thinks, but he can imagine) when he was in actuality just dead on his feet after a gruelling deployment, and frustratedly trying to do mental maths to figure out if whatever special was on was actually worth the bother of ordering.
Idk, I just love HCs that are startlingly human compared to the persona Ghost puts forward on the field.
Out of curiosity, would y’all be more interested in a Kelpie!Soap AU fic— or a long-shot style 141 operator!Reader x König fic, more?
Kelpie!Soap is more fleshed out, and has Ghoap, but is very angst-bordering-on-whump-y. And is set in an alternate universe where Soap never got to join the 141, and primarily focuses on him and Ghost working together to get the 141 back after they were captured while Ghost was on a solo op. Where they have to learning how to navigate the other, and work together. It’s a heavier than anything I’ve written before, but I still have plans for more light hearted banter like I’m prone to writing. Tentatively titled, ‘At Your Service,’ at the ‘mo.
While Reader x König would probably be quicker for me to finish (if I can find good resources to learn his accent) and shorter, focused more on a reluctant co-workers to friends to lovers dynamic, where they grow closer over the course of planning and executing a major illegal goods bust. A bit more lighthearted, albeit it still has its moments, due to König’s social anxiety, and why they end up starting to grow closer because of it. Tentatively titled, ‘Covered,’ because I’m in my loving double meaning titles era rn, and think I’m very clever, lol.
I’m more than willing to elaborate on either if that’s not enough info to decide, just send me an ask / comment or whatever. But be warned I will probably yap more than is required.
(I even broke out a Pinterest board for the Kelpie!Soap au, that’s how excited I am about it. Apparently you can take a lad away from his shite mermaid literature, but you can’t remove the psych damage the shite mermaid literature did to him, and the petty desire to one up it to prove a point, lmao.)
CW: Uhhh, discussion/mentions of like, handling bugs & spiders and such. Not in like a gross/graphic way or anything, but still. Not beta read.
Since I've yapped about my Ghost headcannons a bit on here, I thought I might as well throw out some of my other HCs for shits-and-gigs.
So, here's one I have for Gaz— He does his best to not kill bugs.
Okay, I know that sounds, but it's not because he has a phobia or something, it's a personal choice, he just doesn't want to.
It's not something he practices in the field, his mind far too preoccupied with everything else to pay attention when he reflexively squishes a mosquito, or absently brushes a spider from his gear in his haste to get something.
But when he’s in his flat or on base? Completely different story.
The first time he does it, it’s completely an impulse. He's not even entirely sure why he does. It had been another one of those nights were sleep seemed to be just beyond his reach, despite the way exhaustion was weighing down his bones; leaving him staring dully at the ceiling of his bedroom like the shoddy white paint slathered over it was of great interest.
At least he had been until he’s snapped out of it by the sound of a soft chirp.
Almost instantly he had sat up in bed, draping an arm over his propped up knee, as a furrow creased between his brows. He stays like that for a moment, breath slowing as he sat and listened. Gaz is almost convinced he had been up long enough to begin hallucinating— when it happened again, another quiet chirp, followed by the buzz of wings, and the low dull sound of something very small bouncing off the wall.
Normally he would have just ignored it. That night he hadn’t; maybe he was just tired enough to not be thinking straight, but he found himself fumbling for the cheap lamp — one he had managed to find secondhand — that was on his nightstand, switching it on as he swung his legs over the edge of his bed. It wasn’t a very good lamp, hardly bitting through the darkness around it, even so the sudden light had still been enough to sting his eyes. Gaz blinked harshly to try to get his eyes to focus while he scanned the darkness of his room, getting up when he heard another chip, carefully tracking it through his room until he found the source, a little grasshopper fussing near his dresser, occasionally bouncing off it whenever it jumped.
“… Bloody hell.” He murmured, watching it in bemusement. “How’d you get in here?” After seeing it continue to struggle, Gaz forced a slow breath past his lips as he crouched down, tracking it for a few more seconds before darting forward, catching it between his cupped palms.
It takes a bit of maneuvering to not squish it as he trudges through his flat in the darkness, taking it outside, but he had managed well enough; even if he had to stop and stare at his back door like it was a complex puzzle box for a minute or two, trying to figure out how to get it open without loosing the grasshopper or hurting it.
The night air was cool enough to nip away some of his exhaustion, and the familiar sound of the city eased some tension in his body that had been present for so long, he had forgotten it was even there.
With a grunt, Gaz had crouched back down, hunching over a pavestone as he lowered his hands, cautiously opening them. “… There you go, mate.” As soon as his hands part even a little bit, the grasshopper sprung up, hurriedly jumping off into the darkness. It’s as he’s staring at the spot where the grasshopper just was that a laugh bubbled up in the back of his throat. One of his hands rubbed at his temple as his eyes turn skyward. “What the fuckin’ hell am I doing?” He murmured to the clouds.
Gaz doesn’t get an answer.
From then on he finds himself catching insects whenever they end up in his space, either with his hands, or whatever container like object was around him at the time, and letting them go outside.
Even when he’s exhausted, barely able to keep himself upright, as guilt from an op going sideways claws at his spine, he overturns an empty glass in the small kitchenette attached to the rec room, trapping a small startled spider beneath it — earning him an odd sideways look from Soap, pausing in his ransacking of the cupboards for a snack to do so, and a calculating glance from Ghost, who was leaning against the counter nursing a mug tea — keeping it contained while Gaz looked for something to slip under the glass.
He ignores both men, nudging past Soap to get at an abandoned cardboard box that must have held some kind of protein bars at one point or another, based on the picture on the side of it, and presses it flush with the edge of the counter, sliding the glass over it, corralling the spider onto standing on the box, carrying it all into the hall, and out the nearest fire exit.
It’s not much, but as he lifts the glass, nudging the spider onto a bit of particularly long grass that grew too close to the walls of the base to be cut, something loosened in his chest, enough to make his breathing just a bit lighter as he watches it scurry off.
Idk y’all, there’s just something about Gaz doing his best to make a difference, to try and save people, and feeling guilty when he can’t, coping — without knowing that he is — by doing little acts of kindness, even if it’s just letting a bugs outside when he can, that scratches my brain just right. (It’s probably all the potential for angst.)
Thank y’all for reading!
Lmk what you think, or if you have any headcannons of your own about Gaz, I’m still working on fleshing out my characterization for him, so I’d love to hear about how y’all interpret him.
Also— as always, feel free to send me asks or writing requests.
(Anything that lets me yap about the 141 gets me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure, so, y’know, don’t be worried about sending something, lmao)
(Also, also— I updated my blog to try to give it a more cohesive look, what d’y’all think?)
CW: Fluff without plot— and uh, brief manhandling I suppose? But like, in a cute playful way. Not beta read.
MDNI — gn!reader — established relationship — husband!Price
Ao3 Version
WC: ~1k
It’s not exactly my usual wheelhouse, but I tried to make it cozy and sappy.
Summary: Mornings with Price were always slow and soft, but there was something especially sweet about them when he was fresh off deployment.
Soft light flittered in between the gaps in the blinds, catching on the dust motes that were lazily drifting through the air. Old clothes sat piled atop the cushioned bench beneath the window, a cup of tea you had made the night before was half drunk on your nightstand, next to it the book you had been reading was waiting paitently for you to pick it back up again. You've been half awake for a bit now, curled up in the warmth of the sheets, dozing in and out intermittedly, yet to find the need or will to get up properly.
A contented smile pulls at the corners of your mouth as your hand — the one not tucked under your pillow — finds where John's left is resting over your abdomen, your fingers instantly going to fiddle with the little silver band adorning his ring finger. His rather steady breaths against the nape of your neck are interupted by a low grunt, before he presses closer, his beard gently scratching against your skin as he hides his face away between your neck and shoulder; apparently just as unwilling as you to greet the waking world proper. Which was understandable enough you supposed, he had only gotten back the night prior — with sagging shoulders and rumpled, dirty clothes — shuffling through the front door well after one in the morning, not that you had cared about the hour, or that he had woken you up, more so just that he was home.
He was undoubtedly still jetlagged.
Your hand trailed up the back of his, following the line of his arm up over his shoulder, up and up until your fingers brushed over his hair. A quiet amused sound passed your lips as you leisurely worked your nails against his scalp, enjoying the way he melts into your touch with another grunt— though this one sounded a bit more relaxed than the last; it was doubtful that you would manage to get any semblance of proper speech out of him before noon, or at the very least not until he was the better part of the way through a cup of coffee. Playfully you curl a lock of his hair around your finger, it's just barely long enough to do so, unwinding itself before you can even make a full rotation, slipping off your finger and lazily falling back into place. "... You're going to need a trim soon," the words pass your lips in a soft murmur, staying just low enough that they mould into the atmosphere instead of disrupting it.
In response John lets out another little rough grunt, acknowledging your words as his sturdy arm winds around you more securely, his thick fingers curling into the fabric of your nightshirt, dragging you, and the blankets draped over your body, closer.
"John—" You protest, caught between being mildly puzzled and amused at his antics. In his half asleep state he manages to wedge his other arm under you as his legs tangle between yours, curling around you, and squeezing you to his chest like an oversized teddy. Everywhere he's pressed against you is warm, the sort that can only come from the fuzzy dregs of sleep, and seeps comfortingly into your bones, sure to linger even once you manage to leave your bed.
Just as you think that he's got himself settled, content with how thoroughly he's managed to coil around you— you're very abruptly hoisted up into the air, instinctively scrabbling to hold onto what you can — which means clutching at John's forearms for dear life — as you let out a startled yelp. "John!"
Your back hits the mattress, as you stare wide-eyed at your ceiling, suddenly very much awake, and far more on the left side of your bed than when you had originally awoken that morning. A familiar weight drapes over your body — doing very little to quell the low levels of adrenaline skittering through your body — as John gets comfortable on his other side, partially laying on top of you as he tucks his head underneath your jaw. It's a tad bit uncomfortable of an angle for your head, not that you can find it in you to mind much with the unhurried, easy kisses John is pressing along the column of your throat. "... The light was in m'eyes." He grumbles as of that was a perfectly sensible explanation, his voice low and rough from sleep. Something in you doubts he even actually opened his eyes in the slightest.
"I could've gotten up and closed the bli—"
"You're not goin' anywhere, luv," with a tired groan he tugs on the blankets, momentarily breaking the bubble of warmth surrounding you both until he tucks you both back under properly, “we’re stayin’ right here, in our bed, fer at least another hour.” It’s more of a declaration than any kind of cozy, lazy morning offer— a plan of action, or well, inaction as it may be, that allows for no deviation. Before you can even to try to protest further, his hand brushes up and down your side as he presses another placating kiss to your neck, the gruff hum he lets out buzzing against your skin. “I jus’ got you back, let me enjoy it a little, yeah?”
Even though one of your arms twinges a little with how it’s pinned between your bodies, and there are most certainly things you really ought to get done around the flat, you can only turn your eyes down to your husband, catching his gaze in your own; taking in the way his eyes, while they most certainly hold a hint of exhaustion, are warm and soft as they look at you, his crows feet crinkling the corners of his eyes ever so slightly more prominent as he smiles, and his hair rumbled from sleep. It’s not a sight many would ever be privy to, and for that, something in your chest aches in a manner that shouldn’t be nearly as pleasant as it is. “… Alright,” you allow, and almost instantly John rests against you more, like a living weighted blanket, “for just an hour.” Even as you say it you doubt that either of you will keep to it.
“‘Course, luv,” he murmurs in agreement, as his breathing already starts to even back out, “just an hour.”
I’m still tweaking my characterization of Price, so lmk what y’all think.
As always, please feel free to send me asks or writing requests. :>
(I love yapping about the 141, and enjoy any excuse to get to do so, lmao)
Hiii i loved your post about ghost's mask hcs!! i love when ghosts mask gets used in narratives in fics and stuff too! I was wondering if you would comment on other "popular" headcanons for simon? (some ive seen: he has a sweet tooth, hes blonde, etc etc) do you prefer 09 ghost or reboog ghost? do you mix them up in terms of story/headcanons etc?
Sorry if i sound overbearing/asked too much lol, i just looove when people yap and make headcanons like this!! obviously answer whatever you like!
have a good day :-) 💖
Post this ask is about
Hi! Thanks for the ask— and it’s not too much at all. I welcome anything that lets me yap more about the 141, lol.
I’m going to answer your questions a bit out of order, just for simplicity’s sake.
So— I actually prefer reboot Ghost in general, but I love aspects about both characters. The first CoD games that I played were the MW reboots (solely for Soap), and because of that I tend to favour those versions of the characters.
That being said, I do like to mash both versions of the characters together. As much as I love the MW remakes, they uh, aren’t amazing at explaining most of the characters backstories. Which is less than ideal for me, because I’m the sort of writer that bases my characterizations on how I think their backstories molded them.
It probably fucks up the timeline, but I do tend to just tack on 09 Ghost’s backstory to 22 Ghost. But hey. A little wonky time logic is more preferable to me than just a big ol’ square of nothing on the timeline. (Plus it gives me more ammo for angst.)
I’m a bit new to the fandom (relatively speaking) so I don’t know too many popular HCs— but I’ll do my best. :>
I do think he has blonde hair, maybe a sort of a blonde/dirty-blonde-ish colour? Idk, I have like this specific shade in my brain that’s hard to find, lmao. Anyway, I think he’d have a slightly curly texture to his hair too, when he lets it get long enough to curl. Probably keeps it fairly short so he doesn’t have to bother with it much.
In a similar vein— scarring! I think he’d have a few facial scars, I’m a big ‘he has a scar cutting diagonally through his lip,’ truther. But he’d have a few other nicks here and there that didn’t heal quite right. Also, acne scars, definitely, mostly around the bridge of his nose and alone his cheekbones. Wearing that much eyeblack constantly and a mask all the time definitely fucks up the skin, at least a tad.
The ‘Do Not Resuscitate,’ tattoo across his chest. Definitely, yes. Give me all the angst involving this and inject it into my brain immediately please.
I’ve never heard the one about him having a sweet tooth before— but you know what? Hell yeah. Man’s takes three sugars with his tea, and half of what he eats on leave is junk food, what of it? Plus this works amazingly with my other HC that he can’t cook.
Nightmares + Light sleeper. He may be able to theoretically sleep anywhere, but it’s always a light sleep, and it’s always in stolen chunks of time, especially on a mission. If he wakes up, there’s no shot he’s falling back asleep anytime soon. I like to HC that he has nightmares on the field about the 141 dying in horrific ways that startle him awake— and to calm himself back down he has to go check on them to make sure they’re okay. Which is mildly traumatic to all parties the first few times when they’re still half asleep and roll over to see Ghost looming over them, trying to figure out if they’re breathing or not. Eventually they get used to it though, and don’t react to him other than a sleepy glance, and scooting over on whatever surface they have to pretend is a bed at the time so he can lay with them. Sometimes he can fall back asleep then, but he usually just keeps watch until they have to go.
Definitely makes his own masks, I mean, c’mon. Additional HC that his mum is the one that taught him to sew.
Drinks alcohol somewhat regularly— yes, but never very much of it. He can drink a lot, but he just prefers not to. Doesn’t want to chance getting out of control (cough 09 Ghost backstory trauma cough).
Idk if this one is popular or not— but I feel like he smokes a lot. I HC that it helps him think, and he feels safer doing it than drinking for stress relief. Probably would take smoke breaks with Price.
As for the dark romance stuff… Ehh… I think out of all the 141, Simon would be one of the more softer ones towards his partner. He’s not writing love letters or anything— but he’s definitely not throwing his partner around either. I feel like Simon would be ‘quietly affectionate,’ with his partner, doing what he can to take care of them or make their life a little bit easier. Personally since I use 09 Ghost’s lore for his backstory, there’s no way he’d be comfortable being overly rough or aggressive in an intimate scenario. Also, just to spread my propaganda, service switch Ghost for the win. •v• ↕️
I probably missed a few of the obvious popular ones— but oh well.
