Soft Honeycomb

I peddle smut on AO3

[softh0neycomb]

You can call me Honey 🍯

31| she/her| Queer| Married| Witchy| Autistic 

MDNI - underage/ageless blogs will be swiftly blocked. 

Current Works:

Blood & Buttercream

Dolly Mixtures

Oranges & Lemons

#honeywrites for drabbles/blurbs

I can’t believe I have to write this but don’t use my shit for AI anything

[silverlullabies]

Johnny MacTavish who heard the priest say “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth.” during Sunday Mass and developed the biggest breeding kink as a result.

As a lad, it was just words, rote scripture drilled into him alongside Hail Marys and Our Fathers. But as he grew, hitting puberty, it twisted into something profane, a burning itch under his skin. The verse became his gospel, fueling fantasies that had him waking sweat soaked and hard as steel.

In a perfect work, he was a virile force scattering his seed across continents like a storm. He’d picture it in vivid detail: pinning a lithe operative from MI6 against a Berlin safehouse wall during a layover, her legs wrapped around his waist as he rutted into her.

“Take it all, lass,” he’d tell her in the fantasy, flooding her with hot spurts, imagining her womb clutching greedily at his cum. Months later, in his dreams, she’d be back in London, belly distended like a ripe fruit, stretch marks mapping the conquest of his DNA reshaping her body.

Or that sultry informant in Kabul, her dark hair fanned out on sandy sheets as he bred her deep. He’d visualize the aftermath: her cradling a fat, chubby babe against her swollen tits, the infant’s eyes opening to reveal that piercing, astonishing blue- his blue, a genetic brand.

The fantasies escalated in intensity, borders blurring. A backpacker in Sydney, fucked senseless in a beachside hostel, her cunt milking him dry, pulling out just enough to watch his seed drip from her puffy folds, only to shove back in and plug her tight. Two girls in Tokyo- friends he’d claimed in a neon lit love hotel, alternating between their slick heats, breeding them both in one frenzied night.

Soap’s cock would ache at the thought of their transformations: breasts heaving with milk, nipples dark and leaking, cunts perpetually slick and stretched from carrying his brood.

He’d imagine the sounds- the wet slap of flesh, their pleas turning to moans as he stretched them wide, the guttural cries of labor birthing his kids. Left him dizzy, knowing he’d altered their very biology, left them marked forever, multiplying his line until the earth teemed with echoes of him.

But the SAS was a jealous mistress, chaining him to the grind of ops and ops alone, the ceaseless cycle of infil, exfil, and debriefs- all smothered the fire, turning it to embers.

Demolitions became his outlet, the boom of C4 a pale substitute for the explosive release of his fantasies. He’d channel it into the fight, but at night, alone in his bunk, the verse would whisper back, urging.

Until he saw you.

Soap clocked you instantly in that dim pub. You were sipping a drink, oblivious, but he saw it all in a flash: your body, perfect and primed, swelling grotesquely beautiful with his babies.

Hips widening to cradle multiples- twins, triplets- your skin taut over the mound he’d pump full night after night. Tits ballooning, leaking sweet milk he’d lap up while rutting into your drenched, pregnancy sensitized cunt. Those blue eyed kids clinging to you, more on the way, your womb never empty.

The intensity hit him like a gut punch, cock straining against his jeans as he pictured breeding you feral- tying you down if needed, flooding you until it took, over and over.

A smile curved his lips as he stood. But, he needed to be smart about this- he needed to charm you, take you home, eat you out so many times you were too fucked out to question not using a condom.

And if you did… well… first, before he approached you, Johnny ducked out back, fingers closing around the sewing kit in his vest as he did so.

[553580]

ghost is 100% the kind of dude to just go to a pub and wordlessly grab someone by either the hair or the back of the neck and use their reaction to gauge if he's taking them home

(his favorites are the ones who pause a moment before putting up a fuss- who melt into being manhandled before they remember that they're not supposed to like that, not when there's witnesses, not when it's in public and people are watching. they're the ones who hiss and spit all the way to the cab but moan like they're in a skin flick the second he's got them back at his, ass-up on his bare mattress on the floor)

[softh0neycomb]

All of the TF141 men are munches, just in different ways.

Price: firm belief it’s a standard part of foreplay and getting you ready, however loves it when you’re one of the shy ones, who’s been told that it’s gross or not something men do. Loves training that thought out of your pretty head until when he gives you a choice between fingers or tongue. You’re opting for tongue every time.

Ghost: He’s mean with it, eating you with precision until your orgasms are veering to painful. When you’re begging for him to stop making you cum, clit almost raw, does he pull his mouth away. A sadist, if you don’t cry when he finally pushes his cock into you he’s not doing it right.

Soap: Enjoys making pretty things feral, eats them until they’re bucking underneath him, holding their wrists in his hand when they grab at his hair “don’t y’ken no to interrupt a man when he’s eatin’ Bonnie?” Loves when you finally get desperate enough to drag his face up to yours and demand that he fucks you, now.

Gaz: Ties your hands to the headboard before he’s even got his mouth on you. He wants you desperate… and this means edging you until you’re mindless, switching between your clit and your g-spot, stacking pleasure until you’re promising to try anything, whatever he wants, as long as he fucks you. If you don’t cum the second he’s inside you, he obviously didn’t edge you long enough, did he?

[553580]

thinking about being trapped in a bunker with ghost and i know in my heart he's absolutely declaring a free-use situation within the first hour of the bombs falling and the two of you locking yourselves away underground. from the get-go he's clear about the fact that it doesn't matter to him if you like it or not- he is going to use you to get himself off, and you can either take it or you can give him sparring practice while he's at it. either way works for him, really.

[peachesofteal]

Mafia AU save me. Enforcer Simon obsessed with the new waitress at his regular diner. Stalks her. Digs through her trash. Breaks into her house. Steals her panties. Does everything he can to learn her inside and out so that he’s more prepared and able to make her comfortable once he nabs her

[silverlullabies]

Alternative Part four of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap, Ghost, and Price, it was Gaz

When Gaz stumbled out of the holding cell, rubbing his temples like he'd just woken up from a nap in hell, everyone braced. He looked… normal. Cap on backwards, easy smile, that effortless charm that always soaked through him dialed up to eleven. Except his eyes were glazed, like he was about to narrate a rom com but with all the director's cuts included.

"Right," Price said, steering him into the debrief room with a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down, Sergeant."

Gaz dropped into the chair with the graceful flop of a supermodel, legs stretched out, arms draped over the back like he was lounging at a beach bar. He flashed you a grin that could melt steel.

Price took the chair opposite, elbows on his knees, wearing the look he saved for explosives and his own team. Ghost leaned against the wall, arms folded, and you could feel the amusement radiating off him even through the mask. Soap parked himself on the table, grinning like he'd bought front row tickets to a car crash.

"Feeling alright, Garrick?" Price started, voice carefully neutral.

Gaz blinked slowly, dopey smile blooming, eyes finding you and refusing to leave. "You're so pretty," he said, dreamy as a lullaby.

You startled. "I- what?"

He tilted his head, utterly earnest, like he was sharing the world's most important secret. "Proper knock-me-silly pretty. Like if you asked me to walk into a doorframe I'd do it, smiling, an' then say 'thank you.'" He squinted thoughtfully, smile never wavering. "Your mouth's my favorite shape on base."

Ghost's phone appeared in his hand so fast you almost missed it. The camera sound was not muted.

"Are you… are you recording this?" you hissed.

"Evidence," Ghost said, tone absolutely gleeful beneath the deadpan. "For… operational purposes."

"BLACKMAIL purposes," Soap corrected, grinning.

"That too."

"Truth compound," Price cut in flatly, ignoring them both. "Cognition intact, inhibitions nonexistent.”

Gaz nodded enthusiastically, like a puppy who'd just learned a new trick. "Cognition intact! Feelings… loud." His gaze did a slow, appreciative sweep down, then back up, taking his sweet time. "You're trouble, love."

You swallowed hard, feeling your face heat. "Kyle, maybe we should- "

"Define trouble, Sergeant," Ghost cut in, and you could hear the grin under the mask.

Gaz's dopey smile shifted, edges going sharp with heat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the room’s temperature jumped ten degrees. "The sort that makes me want to put you on my lap and see how long you can keep that clever mouth closed while I make the rest of you talk."

The room went silent.

Then he kept going, like he was warming to his subject. "And you've got this way of biting your lip when you're thinking- drives me mental. Makes me want to do the biting for you." His voice dropped, velvet soft.

Soap wheezed.

Gaz tipped his head. "I'd start slow. Trace my fingers down your spine, nice and easy, feel you arch into it." His hands moved in demonstration, graceful and deliberate, like he was already touching you. "Whispering how stunning you are while I kiss my way south. Take my time with it."

Your face was on fire. "Kyle- "

"Mm." He rolled your tone on his tongue, eyes going half-lidded with pleasure. "Yeah, say it like that again. Say my name all breathy and I'll be gentle about it."

His hand lifted, two knuckles extending to tip your chin up right there in front of everyone. You jerked back in your chair so fast your chair scraped across the floor. Your heart was hammering, face burning hot enough to set off the fire alarms, every nerve ending feeling exposed and raw. The way he was looking at you made your thighs press together involuntarily. 

He smiled wider, lazy and satisfied. "There," he murmured to himself. "That's it. Pretty thing getting all flustered."

Soap slid a look at Price. “Should we… stop this?”

Price didn’t blink. “Operationally fascinating. Proceed.”

Ghost's phone was definitely still recording. “Don’t stop on our account, Sergeant.”

Gaz's attention snapped to you again, all heat and zero shame. "I'll take care of you," he said, voice dropping into that velvet register that should be illegal. "I've got a twenty-seven-step Korean skincare routine, love. Want you to have the nicest seat in all of London when you're riding my face."

Ghost went still. Then his shoulders started shaking.

He was laughing. Silent, full body, barely restrained laughter.

"Double cleanse, serums, slug it overnight; trust me, you'll thank me when you can't sit down without thinking about me."

You stared at the floor. The floor stared back. “That’s very… thoughtful.” you squeaked.

"I'm texting this to Laswell," Ghost announced.

"Don't you DARE- "

"Already sent. She says, and I quote: 'Put him in a medically induced coma before he gets someone pregnant via voice alone.'"

Soap howled.

Gaz settled back in his chair, looking utterly content, like he'd just won something. "I'd take my time between your thighs, love. Tongue exploring every inch, making you melt like honey on a warm day." He said it like he was describing a sunset, all reverent and sincere. "Want to hear those soft sighs turn into moans. Feel you grip my hair- " he mimed it, fingers curling, "- as I lick you deep, circling your clit until you're dripping for me."

"Jesus Christ," you whispered. 

"Begging in that sweet voice of yours," he continued, completely undeterred. His smile went absolutely wicked. "'Kyle, please'- yeah, like that. You'd sound so good begging for me."

Soap fell off the table. Ghost's phone tilted. "Zoom function's incredible on this thing."

Price let out a breath, like he remembered that maybe he should be a Captain right now. "Garrick. How do you feel? Physically."

Gaz hummed, dreamy. "Like I could run a marathon. Or fuck for three hours. Probably both." He didn't even glance over when he answered, too focused on you. "Honestly? I've fantasized about you more times than I can count." He said it like a confession, earnest and unashamed, hand moving to his lap, gripping the crotch and adjusting a very obvious buldge that made your throat tight. You were not looking. You weren’t. "Pictured us in the back of a helo, miles above the ground."

His hands moved again, painting the scene in the air between you. "Your legs wrapped around me while I slide into you slow and deep, feeling every inch." His eyes fluttered briefly, like he was savoring the mental image. "I'd rock into you, hand over your mouth to muffle those gorgeous sounds you'd make."

He demonstrated, palm up, fingers slightly curved, so gentle it was obscene. "Whispering how perfect you feel, clenching around my cock. You'd come undone up there, all flushed and breathless." His voice dropped to almost a purr. "And I'd follow, filling you up just right."

"Kyle, please-!" you flustered, and he groaned, eyes fluttering like he was savoring the sound.

"That's it" Gaz's smile was radiant, delighted. "Even you just saying my name gets me going." He shifted in his chair, getting comfortable like he was settling in for a long chat. "Imagine you on top, riding me, hands on my chest- " he pressed his own hands to his chest, showing you, "- taking what you need, using me."

"I'm imagining being literally anywhere else," you squeaked into your hands.

Ghost's voice was warm with schadenfreude. "But you're not, though. You're right here. With us. Being serenaded by Garrick's horny poetry. And I'm capturing every second."

Gaz’s eyes went distant, dreamy. "I'd guide your hips, tell you how beautiful you look using me like that. How your body's made for this, wet, tight, perfect." The words rolled off his tongue like poetry. "Then I'd flip us over when you're close, pin you down and thrust deep until you shatter."

"Taking notes," Soap announced. "Wet, tight, perfect. That needs t' go on th’ highlight reel, Si.” 

Gaz made a soft, satisfied sound. "Whispering 'that's it, love, let go for me' right in your ear. You'd feel so good, clenching around me, saying my name like a prayer- "

"Beautiful," Ghost said, dead serious. "Poetic. Really paints a picture."

Soap was fully on the floor now, gasping. "He's- he's like if Mr. Darcy joined Pornhub- "

Ghost nodded. "Already got the title for the video file: 'Sergeant Garrick's Horny Soliloquy: A Tragedy in Several Parts.'"

Price moved abruptly, chair scraping. "Hydration. Now." He shoved a water bottle at Gaz.

Gaz took it obediently, drank, then set it down with a satisfied sigh. His eyes found yours again, twinkling with mischief and zero self-preservation. "Wanna hear more?"

"No," you said desperately.

"Yes," Ghost and Soap said immediately. "Please. Continue."

"Lovely," Gaz said, delighted. "Honestly, I've fantasized about pinning you against the lockers in the armory. Your back to the cold metal, my hands warm on your hips- " he squeezed the air, demonstrating the grip. "I'd grind against you slow, letting you feel how hard you make me."

He mimed it, hips rolling in the chair with indecent grace. "Then I'd drop to my knees right there." He gestured downward, reverent. "Fingers slipping inside you, curling just right while my mouth works magic on your clit."

His fingers crooked in demonstration, and you wanted to die. You slid lower in your chair. If you tried hard enough, maybe you could phase through the floor.

"I'd edge you 'til you're begging, love." He pitched his voice up slightly, imitating you: "'Kyle, please, more'- yeah, you'd sound just like that." Back to his normal voice, going darker: "And then I'd stand, slide my cock in deep, thrusting with that perfect rhythm until you're clenching around me, coming so hard the whole base hears it."

He pressed a finger to his lips, eyes dancing. "But shh, our little secret."

Soap was making sounds like a dying walrus.

Gaz turned to look at him, genuinely concerned. "You alright, mate?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he swiveled back to you.

"Kyle- "

"You'd look so good on your knees," he said, voice dropping to something intimate and filthy. "Looking up at me with those eyes, lips parted. I'd trace your mouth with my thumb- " he brushed his own thumb across his lower lip, slow and sensual, "- then guide you onto my cock. Let you take me deep, slow. Set your own pace."

Soap crawled back onto the table, hair disheveled, eyes manic. "Cap- Cap- can we keep 'im like this? Please? It's like Shakespeare joined OnlyFans!"

Ghost nodded sagely. "'To fuck or not to fuck, that is the erection.'" He paused. "I'm putting that on a mug."

You choked on your own spit.

Price looked at Ghost. Just looked at him.

Ghost shrugged, still recording. "What? I contain multitudes. Mostly spite and blackmail."

Gaz leaned back, utterly unbothered by the chaos. "Can't stop the truth train, sir. Next stop: nasty."

"We're already there," you hissed.

"Oh, sweetheart." His smile went molten. "We haven't even started."

Ghost's voice was downright cheerful. "I've got two hours of storage left. Don't let me stop you."

Soap wheezed. “This is… romantic and obscene.”

“Pick a lane,” Ghost murmured, adjusting the camera angle.

“I refuse,” Gaz said cheerfully. He gestured lazily, as if rearranging furniture. “Then I’ll put you belly down, hips up, and take my time. Praise you until you’re glassy eyed. Make you ask for every inch.” He tipped his head, sleepy, sly. “If you’re good, you get to climb into my lap and take it how you want while I tell you how gorgeous you look.”

Soap’s howling, rolling like he’s been shot. “Stop! I’m gonna piss meself!”

Price rubbed his face with both hands. "Garrick. I'm begging you. Think about… operational security. The mission. Literally anything else."

"Can't, sir. Currently thinking about her on her knees, looking up at me with those eyes, lips parted- "

Price stood, hauling Gaz up by the collar with the efficiency of a man who'd done this too many times. "Med bay. Now. Before you charm the pants off of her. You two, stop encouraging him.”

Soap put his hands up. “Ahm merely vibing, sir.”

Gaz let himself be hauled up, loose-limbed and boneless, still talking. He stumbled slightly, caught himself, grinned at you over his shoulder. "I’m gonna mark you up real nice to everyone knows it’s my cock you’re bouncing on-"

Price physically turned him toward the door.

Gaz kept talking, voice carrying down the hall. "- made for me, every inch of you, and I'd worship every bit. Start with your neck, work my way down, make you writhe- "

The door shut.

His voice, muffled: "-and I haven't even told you about the shower fantasy yet- "

Silence.

Ghost stopped recording. "That was beautiful. Backed up. Encrypted. Sent to my secure server. This is never going away."

Soap was still on the floor. "I need a minute. Maybe several."

You dropped your head into your hands.

From down the hall: "- waterfalls, love, I'm talking waterfalls- "

Price's bellow: "GARRICK, STOP NARRATING- "

You slump against the wall, laughing weakly, your face on fire. “Next time, we send in a robot.” 

Soap wheezes, “Aye, but where’s the fun in that?”

[Shout out to @bunnyreaper for betaing this!]

[ghouljams]

it's just that you have the perfect look, exactly the kind of vibe that pornstar!ghost wants in a costar. innocent eyes, perfectly parted lips when you look up at him, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of the baby doll dress the producers put you in, his mouth waters, fingers itching to grip and grope. he wants to eat you alive.

"I'm excited to work with you," you tell him, voice like bells in his head. darkness starts to fuzz his vision, his zipper biting at his hardening cock.

"'m gonna rip you apart." He grunts.

"what?" your lips part wider and ghosts fist clench tight.

"dont fucking talk to me."

[cowboyshadows]

revival. one

Ghost is brought to the real world by forces beyond his control, and his first goal in new life is to hunt down his biggest fan.

or, the isekai fic. thank you to @bajoslovan for supplying ghost's tumblr username :)

Read on AO3.

CW: elements of stalking, masturbation (to smut), unportected p in v, sex. Nsfw MDNI

The world blinks into focus. 

No gunfire. No orders barked in his ear. Just silence. 

He tumbles into existence at nightfall, awakening to a modest studio apartment in the middle of what he surmises is a metropolitan city. 

No rubble. No gunfire. No bodies in the streets. 

Not a war zone, then. 

No point in questioning the why or the how. He only cares about the what. 

From the get go, it’s evident to him that it’s a popular game: Call of Duty. And that he’s from it, and somehow… he’s been transported into a reality that isn’t his. 

The apartment makes a spectacle of the game. Of him, mostly. Bobbleheads and figurines and posters. It’s a little confounding. He picks one up, weighs it in his palm in his inspection. He should be flattered. 

He’s not. He has more important things to worry about. 

So he takes his tactical vest off, clicks the safety back onto his gun. Shoves it all into his already overflowing backpack. Takes his mask off, because from what he can tell—nobody’s seen the Ghost without his mask. 

The streets are mostly empty, save for the occasional buzzing past of a motorcycle. He hasn’t crossed a normal, civilian street in ages. He gets honked at incessantly. The night is cold, and his clothes are scarce. 

He manages to pick his way into an empty library, tying it locked with the same metal chains. The cold bites into the flesh of his palm. It might not keep out other charlatans from breaking their way in like him, but it’ll buy him some time at least. His fingers trail over the hinges of the door, free of oil and rusted. It’s clear to him there’s only two ways to get out of here—the main door, which he just locked; and the window at the opposite end. Seems big enough for him, too. He’d just have to figure out a way to jam it open. Maybe break it, if need be. 

The first thing he does is scout the place for computers. Libraries used to have computers, at least back in his reality. He’d stumbled upon a few box monitors—cracked and dusty—back in Baghdad. Counter insurgency missions leading him to stumble upon troves of knowledge gutted by war. These are different, of course. More up to the mark, could be right at home with one of those fancy CIA monitors. No dust, either. 

He fumbles with a few switches until he sees the screen go a lighter black. Takes the chair out, and immediately begins typing. It asks for a password, and he pulls off a sticky note attached to the top right of the computer. IHeartReading25, it says. 

Christ, he thinks, it’s amateur hour with these folks. 

A few clacks of the keyboard like he’s logging in coordinates, and he’s on a search engine. Types in Call of Duty, and the third picture he stumbles upon has him smack dab in the centre. 

Did he pose for that? Doesn’t look half bad, either. 

The next thing he types in his name. Minus the Ghost. Plain and simple, Simon Riley. He’s bombarded with an onslaught of information—of all kinds, really. His biography, which includes his family history and his military history. 

Now, how on earth did these people get ahold of that shit? 

His stomach churns as he scrolls the information. His mother, his brother, his father… it’s all in here. His entire life, all that trauma… it had just been a story to these people. They got one thing wrong, though. It wasn’t Roba’s jaw he used to crack open that casket—it was his femur. Or maybe he’s just remembering it wrong. 

He sees a 3D render of what people imagine his face to be, and scoffs. He’s almost offended. There’s a strange itch overcoming his actual face, but he can’t quite figure out where it is. It crawls deeper and deeper, gnawing at something in his belly. Unfurling perniciously. He stares at the text in blue for a beat, before shifting his gaze to the next link. 

Some site named Reddit says the newer version of him is miles more badass than his older version. 

Whatever that’s supposed to mean. 

Steam Community says him wearing a mask all the time is lame. You try getting people to take you seriously when your face looks like a Picasso impression. 

He continues scrolling through the endless links—Pinterest, some news sites—until he finds a particularly interesting line of text:

Simon Riley whimpers when you pull his hair. 

He damn near tumbles out of his chair. His jaw might unhinge from how slack it hangs. Maybe this is some weird dream. Maybe he’d finally taken one of those edibles Soap and Gaz always snickered about, and this is just some… strange wet dream. If only to bite, he clicks on the link. 

Simon Riley whimpers when you pull his hair. It’s a broken, strangled sound that falls from his lips, only for the audience of his mommy. 

His face is like a Renaissance painting right now—all scandalised and clutching his pearls. It’s like a car accident: it’s horrifying and grotesque but he, for some goddamn bloody reason, cannot bring himself to look away. 

“Please, mistress,” he begs, on his knees, tongue lapping at your cunt. “I’ll be a good boy.” 

He needs to hunt the author of this post down. Maybe after he finishes reading it, though. Make sure he covers all bases and all that. He hates this, obviously. 

Maybe his dick—pressing against the denim of his dirty jeans—doesn’t exactly agree, but he definitely hates this. His grip on the mouse is white knuckled as he scrolls through it. Jesus fucking Christ. These people are doing anything but playing the video games. 

Clicking on the username of the person who wrote this proves to be an even bigger mistake. There’s an entire list of works they’ve written about him, mostly revolving around him being pathetic in some way or the other. 

Ghost may command on the battlefield, but in the bedroom, he’s just a desperate little thing, rutting against your thigh like a dog in heat. 

Okay, false. Wrong, wrong, wrong. On all counts. 

Before he can stop it, his free hand’s migrated downwards. Hey, having boners while wearing jeans fucking hurts, okay? That’s the only reason he’s unzipping his belt. Caressing the skin there a little to assess for zipper-related injuries. The library’s empty anyway, so it’s not like anyone’s going to hear him sighing softly. 

“You like being used, don’t you, big guy?” He nods, shame burning bright on his face. He loves it. 

That’s… no, that’s inaccurate. Well— to be fair, Simon hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to be used before. One night stands really only get you slags that want to get bent over a bar loo sink or their face shoved into their mattress. 

Not that he’d enjoy all this… mommy bullshit, anyway. He’s just jerking off because he’s really stressed right now. 

“Fuckin,” he mutters, “bloody jeans.” He tugs them down a bit, the hardness of the wood biting into the bones of his ass. He doesn’t care—as long as the denim doesn’t end up chafing his balls, he’s fine. 

That’s why he tugged the jeans down. Not so he could fondle himself while reading this hogwash. 

His cock is massive—biblical, even. The kind of length that makes physicists scratch their heads and theologians question God’s intentions. It hangs heavy, thick as a forearm, the kind of girth that makes grown men weep and chiropractors rub their hands together in wicked glee. 

His hand staggers until it stops. The corners of his mouth press down in perusal, gaze sheepishly dropping to his goods. Well… maybe. A little bit like that. Perhaps. He’s not exactly a shrimp, you know? He’s gotten howls and cheers in the locker rooms before, so he’s aware that he’s… well-endowed, to put it nicely. But this? Biblical? Seriously? 

Hours pass. The moon dips low and the sun rises, casting its dusky glow over the horizon. The sunlight filters in through the large window he’d mapped out for an exit, golden rays illuminating the dust particles on the monitor. His head lifts from the desk at 6:07 AM, and the library is still empty. 

His come’s dried on his hand and thighs, and the monitor he’d been using for his perusal has long since shut down. He groans, tongue lifting from the floor of his mouth in a disgusting, sticky way that reeks. He has a travel size tube of toothpaste, and a little plastic brush. 

His stomach growls with want, muscles rumbling. Maybe he still has that box of chicken tikka MRE stashed in his bag. He wipes his hand and thigh on a used baby wipe in the front pocket of his bag. Sprays a good amount of deodorant onto his body. Turns the computer back on, and erases all the search history after mentally noting down the username of that one blog. He isn’t finished here yet. 

He manages to nab a job at a butcher’s shop. It’s what he knows second best, seeing as how to enlist in the military here he’d need an ID. Also, he’s not particularly chuffed at the concept of having to start from scratch with training. 

The head butcher, a burly man with a heavy, handlebar moustache, had been hesitant to give the job to someone as desolate and homeless-looking as Simon. But the moment he got his hands on that knife and meat—Mr. Vitaliy, or Vitya as he has Simon call him, was more than convinced. Since Simon doesn’t have bank details to speak of, Vitya makes him do a little more grunt work than expected. Cleaning, taking out the trash, hauling deliveries. His arms are spent and sore by the end of the day, but at least he has a nice looking, crispy bunch of notes that amounts to eighty pounds. 

That’s fine. He can do a lot with eighty pounds. Plus the scrap pence he has in his beat-up wallet. 

Your fork digs into the cabbage of your salad with a resonant crunch. The break room’s buzzing with chatter already though, so you doubt anyone hears. Your fingertips work at an alarming rate as you type away at your latest work in progress. 

His breath, heavy with the scent of danger and mystery (and maybe just a little bit of raw meat), fanned across her skin as he loomed over her like a wolf who had just discovered the concept of love. 

Just as you’re about to post it, you get a notification. 

Obscure-frequency-89 has followed you! 

You click on the blog. Completely empty, blank. Must be a bot. Your finger hovers over the block button when you get another notification. The blog’s sent you a message. Huh. 

Obscure-frequency-89: Your writing makes my pulse irregular. 

Obscure-frequency-89: Explain yourself. 

You furrow your brows, the corner of your mouth tugging up ever so slightly. This is an interesting comment. 

simonrileyscock: haha thanks :) 

His breath stops for half a second—then he exhales sharply through his nose, lips pressed into a firm line. His free hand twitches at his side, then curls into a fist. 

The fuck do you mean, haha thanks? 

His jaw tightens. He rubs a hand down his face, fingertips lingering at the corner of his mouth before he shakes his head and types. 

Obscure-frequency-89: I’m serious. 

Obscure-frequency-89: Do you really like ghost that much? 

He takes a moment to consider what else to say, drumming his fingers over the keyboard. 

Obscure-frequency-89: I mean

Obscure-frequency-89: Would you really do all that to him? 

His breath is bated, stilled as he awaits your response. He rolls his shoulders back, forcing the tension out of them, like shaking off a blow. Then— 

simonrileyscock: lol sure. if u know him personally pls send him my way LMAO 

A tiny muscle ticks in his jaw, and his teeth grate. He wonders if you have an off button. He wonders how you’d react if you knew who was on the other end of your phone. He leans back, fingers rubbing and pressing at his temples. He’s irritated, but he’s not exactly sure why. 

What the hell. Sure, he knows him personally. You could say that, Tumblr user simonrileyscock. 

Turns out, it’s not that difficult to get close to someone who writes video game porn like it’s for a living. One just has to play their cards right. Ghost figures out the exact balance between helpful and unsettling that keeps you coming back if only to guess his intentions. 

Obscure-frequency-89: Nice username. Not. 

simonrileyscock: ok random tumblr generated username 

Obscure-frequency-89: Do you have a better idea? 

Obscure-frequency-89: This is practical. 

simonrileyscock: hmm let me think 

simonrileyscock: what about ghostshappytrail 

You’re incorrigible, that much has been made obvious to Simon by now. His fingers hesitate over the keyboard, but he changes his username anyway. You get so happy, it’s almost cute. 

simonsrileyscock: YAYY YOU ACTUALLY DID IT!!!!! :D 

He catches himself smiling in the neon glow of the computer, hunched over the desk in the empty library like he is every night now. He pretends like something weird didn’t just happen deep in his guts. He types you’re welcome, but never sends it. 

You send him fan-fiction you work on, and it’s mostly because he sends you back oddly specific advice. 

simonrileyscock: ghost drags his knife along his thigh holster, the blade gleaming under the dim light as he leans in 

ghostshappytrail: Knives don’t gleam under dim light unless they’re coated in oil. Also if he’s leaning in that close, his body heat would be a bigger distraction than the knife. 

You send him back a picture of this strange, one-eyed green goblin staring unimpressed. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. 

You make half-assed posts thirsting over him, too. And those are the ones that really get him. 

simonsrileyscock 

ghost could snap me in half like a twig and i’d thank him 

He wants to say, “yeah? You wanna test that out, birdie?” But instead, he hits backspace more times than he can count. Exhales through his nose and grounds himself before he asks you what species of twig you’re referring to. 

ghostshappytrail: Red maple has a tensile strength of approximately 10,200 psi. If you meant something weaker, like white pine, then sure. 

He lives to read your stories—wank to them, more realistically. He’s made peace with it now. This is just his life. Well, not yet. But it could be. And he knows it can be. 

It happens on a Thursday evening. He’s sipping some black gruel they call espresso at the cafe neaby, and scrolling through your blog to check what you’ve been up to in the time he was at work. Something about wolves, something about pubic hair, but then— 

simonrileyscock 

i hate having to take the bus soooo much omg 

Simon stills. The cheap ceramic cup creaks under the pressure of his grip. His pulse kicks up, steady but sharp. A target spotted. A weakness exposed. 

(Simon, like most other students in the world, had learnt about this one scientist back in school. Archimedes, the one who proposed the concept of displacements caused by volume. The one who’d jumped out of his tub at his epiphany, and yelled—) 

“Eureka,” he whispers, under his breath. He leans back in his chair, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth. She takes the bus. Buses run on routes. Routes have stops. Stops have maps. 

He just needs a little more. 

ghostshappytrail: Public transit is the worst. 

simonrileyscock: TELL ME ABOUT IT 

Bingo. 

Silly girl. So trusting on the internet. 

He’d scrolled your blog for hours, looking for every piece of information for your bus routes. You’ve left croutons in your holed pockets and he’s a bird. You take it daily—it’s a city, not a town. The bus is always late—so it’s not some pristine little commuter town. You’ve moaned about the rain twice this month—which means it’s the north. The south’s been dry for all of it. 

simonrileyscock can’t believe the price of yorkshire tea went up again 😭 

Most people wouldn’t care, no—but Yorkshire Tea is a religion up north. 

simonrileyscock: once this man on the 192 just pulled out a fuckin turtle dude 

You know what city uses 192 as a bus route? Additionally, you know what city he knows like the back of his hand? Manchester. 

She’s in Manchester. 

He cracks his neck, smiling to himself. Like a bullet finding its mark, like a blade meeting flesh—inevitable. 

NEXT PART

[stargirlstabber]

simon "manhandle her into any position cause i've got them big as fuck muscles" riley

[hrgifs]

ilya checking in with shane

[silverlullabies]

Alternative Part two of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap it was Ghost

You met them in the corridor as they hauled Ghost out of the room. He wasn’t fighting. That was the worrying bit. He walked between Gaz and Soap calmly, mask still on, eyes unnervingly clear and focused in a way that made your stomach knot.

“Get him in the side room,” Price ordered. “Door open. I want him where we can see him.”

They plunked Ghost down in a chair in the small debrief room next to observation. Fluorescent light buzzing. Concrete. Chairs that had seen better centuries.

Ghost sat like a very large, very dangerous statue. Hands folded. Boots planted. Every inch of him broadcast: fine, this is fine, I am absolutely fine.

You’d seen him concussed and bleeding and he’d looked more rattled than this.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Nobody ask him anything not strictly operational.”

“Copy,” you said, and then- because you are a fool- “How you feeling, Lt?”

Ghost looked up, utterly deadpan. “I want to bend you over this table, push your face down, and fuck you until you’re you dripping and needy, taking everything I give you. I’d keep you there- hand on your back, palm round your throat- ‘til you’re sobbing and soaked through. Want to ruin you for anyone else.”

Soap choked. Gaz left his body. Price closed his eyes and saw the war again.

You stared. “I- what?”

Ghost shrugged, that tiny, indifferent lift of his shoulder. “You asked how I’m feelin’. Well, that’s it.” He paused, head tilting to look at your measuring, clinical. “Be a proper fuckin’ picture, you would. Face down on that table, hands flat, tryin’ to hold yourself together. I’d have you arse up, legs wide, spread out for me, beggin’ me to go easy ‘cause you know I won’t. Wouldn’t let up, not till you’re shakin’, voice gone from moanin’ my name, tears on your cheeks from takin’ my cock so deep you feel me in your cunt for days after.”

“Christ on a bike,” Gaz whispered.

“What the hell, Simon?” You asked, gaping at him.

“Can’t lie, love.” His tone was flat, like he was reciting the weather. His gaze slid down your body; slow, clinical, lingering everywhere it shouldn’t. He took his time dragging back up, fixing you with that heavy stare behind the mask. “And seems I can’t shut up either- every time you walk in, I think about how easy it’d be to get you under me. How you’d sound beggin’ with my hand between your legs my fingers buried in your cunt, how good you’d look with your lips wrapped round my cock, droolin’ for it- fuckin’ fantastic. Been wantin’ to say this for ages.”

Soap leaned his hip on the table, grinning like Christmas had come early. “Oh, I like this.”

Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a safeguarding violation with legs.”

Price ignored them. “Simon, focus. You know who we are?”

“Course I do, sir,” Ghost said. “You’re my captain. Gaz is tryin’ not to laugh. Soap’s havin’ the time of his life. An’ she- ” he jerked his chin at you, “- is three seconds from either swingin’ at me or climbin’ in my lap and bounce on it.” He paused. “Maybe both if I’m lucky.”

You made a strangled, high pitched sound you’d deny on your deathbed. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t need to excuse you, love,” he said. “Just need you to stretch first.”

Silence. Even the lights stopped humming to watch the show.

“Statistically.” He clarified, tapped the table, perfectly calm. “You look at my hands when I’m cleaning weapons and then rub your throat. Pupils dilate point two millimetres when I call you ‘love’. You stand closer when I’m in a bad mood. You want the monster. Preferably on your couch. Cushions are useless, by the way. Won’t help your back when I fold you in half and bury my dick in your cunt.”

Price massaged his temples. “Simon.”

“Sir?”

“Go easy.”

Ghost considered. “Negative.”

He turned back to you, flat as ever, eyes half lidded. “Tonight, I’d put my knee on the chair, you on your stomach. One hand holdin’ you down, other between your legs, rubbing your clit while I fuck you deep, feel your cunt choking my cock. Want to hear you cry for it. Want to feel you fall apart on me while you’re pinned under my hand like you’re made to be there.”

Gaz slapped a hand over his ears. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. Where’s the volume control- ”

He spun toward the observation console, hand shooting for the dial that controlled the mic feed.

In the split second before he got there, Soap clocked his intention and launched.

“Don’t you DARE!” Soap yelled, rugby tackling Gaz away from the controls. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, both swearing.

“MacTavish you bloody bastard!” Gaz wheezed.

“No!,” Soap crowed, trying to pin him. “If you touch that button to drown him out, I’ll bite yer hand off, I’m not missin’ this!”

Price dragged a hand down his face. “Professionalism. I’d like some.”

“Not today, sir,” Soap said from the floor. “Today’s for the lads and he’s about to submit a three point plan.”

Ghost obliged. “Four point plan.” He turned to you again. “One: I eat you until you’re crying. Two: you beg. Three: I pretend I didn’t hear you and keep going. Four: you get stupid enough to say please and I reward good manners. Training matters.”

Your jaw had left its hinges. “You can’t- you don’t talk like this.”

“I do now.” He hummed. “This is nice. We should do this more often.”

Price looked skyward. “I’m instituting a swear jar for any word related to… that.”

“Fucking,” Ghost supplied helpfully.

“Right,” Price snapped. “That’s five quid.”

Ghost nodded. “Worth it.” He turned that blank, laser focus back to you. “Also worth it: you sitting on my face. I would die there. Happy to. Don’t revive me. Leave me. Carve ‘died doing what he loved’ into a cheap pine box and throw me in a canal.”

Soap wheezed, tears leaking. “He’s gone, captain. He’s with the angels.”

You grasped for some kind of footing. “But you’re… You’re always so rude to me.”

“True,” he agreed. “Y’like it.”

“I do not,” you snapped.

“Y’like it,” he repeated calmly. “Your cheeks go pink when I bully you. You clench when I call you a brat. You want me to pin you to the floor and tell you you’re annoying while I make you come on my fingers. Then you want to choke on my cock until you’re drooling down my thighs.”

Your soul tried to escape your body via the ceiling.

Gaz wriggled out from under Soap just far enough to gasp, “I’m loggin’ this as ‘intelligence leak’.”

“Fuckin’ right you are,” Soap laughed. “He’s leaking something.”

You reached for dignity again and came up with a knife. “Say another word and I’ll stab you.”

Ghost nodded, thoughtful as ever, like he was adding notes to your personnel file “Noted. You get off on threatening me. Could’ve guessed, but now I know for sure. Makes things easy, doesn’t it? Because I’ll be honest- not like I have a choice- every time you aim a blade at me, every time you spit and tell me to fuck off, it goes straight to my cock.”

His tone didn’t waver, just that quiet, factual Ghost delivery. “Means we’re well matched. You threaten to stab me, I get hard. I threaten to pin you down and make you beg, you get wet. Could build a relationship off that. Real healthy foundation mutual arousal by violence. Not sayin’ it’s textbook, but it’s honest. You threaten to kill me and I’ll fuck you harder. Win-win.”

“I-!”

He held up a hand, courtroom sober. “For the record, I doubt Price is going to let me rail you right now but since I can’t keep my mouth shut, I’ll just paint you a picture instead: every filthy thing I’m goin’ to do to you once this shit’s out of my system. So you’ve got time to get ready and prepare your affairs.”

“Prepare my-?”

“Wills. Stretching routines. Hydration.” He pointed at your water bottle. “Finish that. You cramp when you’re dehydrated and then you get a headache and make these huffy little annoyed sounds. Cute as fuck. Makes me wanna ruin you.”

Price put his face in his hands. “I’m too old for this.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, inexorable. “Scenario A: you knock on my door at oh one hundred ‘for a question’. I open it. You pretend to forget the question. I say, ‘Out with it, love.’ You say, ‘I hate you,’ and then try to kiss me to shut me up. I put you against the wall and do not kiss you until you ask properly. Scenario B: stairwell-“

“Stop giving options!” Gaz begged. “Pick one and perish!”

“- Scenario C,” Ghost continued serenely, “gym. You’re doing bench dips. I stand behind you and correct your form. You moan. Pathetic, sweet little sound you pretend is exertion. I call you out. You deny it. Then I- ”

“Simon,” you said through your fingers, “I am literally going to combust.”

“Not literally,” he said. “But later, yes. Screaming and everything.”

Soap slapped the floor. “Actually going to combust.”

You tried one last, limp defense. “You’re mean. All the time. You don’t even like me.”

“Incorrect.” He watched you like you were something he meant to disassemble and polish. “I like you in a way that is both deeply inconvenient and alarmingly structural. If I were a house, you’d be the load bearing wall. I cannot knock you down. I can, however, knock you up- ”

“OUT!” Price barked, pointing at the hallway like an angry dad. “Med bay. Alone. No one talk to him!”

Ghost stood obediently, chair scraping, then paused in the doorway and looked back at you. The tone didn’t change, still that unbothered, sand dry delivery but something hungry flickered behind it.

“Contingency note before I’m banished,” he said. “You keep saying I’m mean. Okay. But you would still let me fuck you.”

You threw the knife. He caught it without looking and set it on the table like a librarian shelving a returned book.

“Also,” he added, the barest tilt to his head, “you’re going to punch me about this later. I endorse it. Normal reasons.”

“What fucking normal-!”

“For the record,” he went on, already turning away, “before any of that? I’m going to make you dinner, wash your hair, kiss your knees, and tell you you did a good job today. Then I’m going to put you on your stomach and- ”

“MED BAY!” Price bellowed, herding him down the hall with both hands like a sheepdog herding a very large, very horny sheep.

The door shut. There was a stunned quiet. Soap rolled over boneless to the floor, giggling into his palms. Gaz sat up and put his head between his knees.

Price exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten minutes. “You alright?”

You stared at the empty doorway, brain white noise, thighs pressed together in a way that absolutely wasn’t because of anything he said. “No.”

“Mm.” Price rubbed his face. “He’ll be himself again in a few hours.”

“God,” you said weakly. “You mean worse?”

“Quieter,” Price said. “But he’ll remember. And he’ll mean every word.”

You let that roll through you, catastrophic and warm and terrible.

From down the hall, through the door, came Ghost’s muffled voice with the same implacable calm: “For later documentation: I am going to put my mouth on- ”

“SIMON!” three voices roared in unison.

You mouthed at the ceiling. Then you grabbed your water bottle- hydration, apparently- and took a long drink.

Gaz cheeks pink, eyes wide. “So… gym tomorrow?”

You capped the bottle with shaking hands. “Absolutely not.”

Beat.

“…yes.”

From the hallway: “Mm. Thought so.”

[femalefemur]

thinking about going to some underground fight with your friends, everyone is drunk, you included and johnny comes out into the ring. the small crowd cheering as the fight starts only for you to yell out "grab his dick and twist it!" which makes your friends cackle hysterically and johnny's head snap towards you. staring before a feral grin spreads across his face and he does exactly that. he might just have found the love his life

[gloomwitchwrites]

Kinktober 2025 // Call of Duty

altar sex / priest / virginity - John “Soap” MacTavish x Female Reader

crucifix: Believing you’ve found God, you give yourself to the priest of your church.

Content & Warnings (MDNI): virgin!reader, priest!soap, nun!reader, altar sex, unprotected piv, religious undertones, ambiguous ending // wc: 810

ao3 // main masterlist // kinktober 2025 masterlist

The interior of the church is all warm shadow, the edges illuminated by the prayer candles in their last breath. Sneaking off in the middle of the night, hiding from Sister Superior, crawling behind the rosebushes to avoid detection. The nuns would be furious if they knew you were out after curfew—even if it is to meet Father MacTavish.

The man glows with God’s holy light. His humor, patience, and kindness radiate all the virtues you love in your Lord. Men like Father MacTavish are called to service for Him, just as you are. You are in service to him as much as to God. For Father MacTavish reads the holy scripture and finds God’s voice, speaking it with a clearness that rings like the church bell.

It is this secondary service, your service to Father MacTavish, that has urged you from bed, rushing in the dark to meet him. You are to give your most precious self to God. Virginity is a construct of the flesh. Giving that away to any man is sacrilege unless given to one who speaks with His voice.

Father MacTavish is that voice. You sense the Lord every time he speaks. Not only in sermons but in all things. It is why you’ve come here. The Sister Superior wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t think as you do. But she is weak and old and bitter.

“Is this okay?” you ask timidly, curling in on yourself. The flimsy nightdress you’re wearing is for sleeping, not for running around in the middle of the night. “I didn’t have time—”

Father MacTavish gently hushes you, grasping your upper arms to still your fidgeting. “God does not care for excess. You’re perfect.”

Leaning in, he seizes your mouth with his own. The kiss is sweet—welcoming. You melt like softened butter. Father MacTavish lingers here for a moment, retreating to smile on you with love.

“See? I’m happy. Which means that God is happy.”

The kiss leaves an intensifying need behind, like buzzing electricity. It crackles between your bodies, and Father MacTavish offers more. A deeper kiss with strong hands trailing along your body. They stop at your thighs, grasping the backs of them, lifting you ever so slightly off the ground to place you on the altar.

The decorative bible that typical rests there is gone, and you’re able to recline slightly, legs falling open as Father MacTavish slots himself between, pressing you harder against the altar. Every touch is tinged with desperation. You find yourself clinging to him, fingers digging into the muscles of his back, pulling him closer though there is no room. He matches your hunger, the two of you a tangled nest of limbs and want.

This is what true worship is, and you revel in it, surrendering yourself completely to God as Father MacTavish tugs the flimsy fabric down and off your body. Shame wants to make itself known, but you boldly plow it under your foot, trample on it to show God how much you love him. Shame has no part in this.

His lips descend, finding your shoulder and collarbone, then the curve of your breast. His tongue circles a nipple, and then lightly sucks it into his mouth. You gasp, back arching, unable to comprehend the sensation. Father MacTavish brings the nipples to stiff points, and still, he does not cease—not until you’re wiggling with a deep desire that spreads outward from between your thighs.

“Father,” you whimper, wanting to feel him everywhere.

To feel him inside. To know God everywhere.

“Please,” you beg, because it’s all you can muster.

Lips trail over stomach and pelvic bone, each leg draped over a shoulder. Father MacTavish tenderly kisses your inner thighs, only to press up and over you, bringing you to the edge of the altar. You are completely naked, and Father MacTavish is still in his priest blacks. No cassock, just the black long-sleeved button up, collar, black dress pants, and shoes. He looks like he does whenever you’ve come to him in his office. Relaxed. At his most natural.

He fumbles with the belt, working it open along with the front of his pants. You don’t see his erection but you feel it. There’s a brief flicker of resistance. Then pure pleasure and an aching stretch. Father MacTavish groans loudly, his head falling back as he finds heaven between your legs.

This is all you wanted. To give yourself over to God.

Clinging to him, you submit to your savior, reciting the Lord’s prayer as Father MacTavish thrusts into you. With the final amen on your lips, you glance to the side, staring up at the hanging crucifix with a loving smile. It fades from your lips, melting away like a cleansing river as your gaze finds Jesus on the Cross.

It’s been turned upside down.

[softh0neycomb]

Grief is weird coz most of the time you’re fine and then you’re crying in TK Maxx because they’re selling the Coca Cola glasses you get in pubs

[silverlullabies]

Like I’m just imagining how absolutely feral Soap would be if you complained about your body anywhere near him.

He’s usually a damn golden retriever in combat boots; grinning, loud, always moving like he’s got a song in his head no one else can hear. He’s sunshine and swagger, tail practically wagging behind him. And sure, yeah, you’ve seen the darkness too. That flash of cold efficiency during an op. The way he moves like a different animal when it’s kill or be killed.

But you never expected that look to turn on you.

He lifts his head slow. Controlled. The kind of slow that means danger.

Eyes dark. Brows drawn. That smile gone, carved off and replaced with something sharp.

“Say that again,” he growls.

You try to laugh it off. “It’s not a big- “

“Say it again, bonnie.” His voice is low and dangerous. Angry. “Say it, and watch what I fuckin’ do about it.”

Which is how you wind up face first into the couch cushion, cock bullied into your overstimulated cunt, sobbing and blubbering as he wrings another orgasm out of you.

Your thighs are trembling, breath punched out of your lungs with every thrust. He’s so deep you can feel him in your lungs. And he’s not letting up, not when you whimper, not when your legs kick at the cushions, not when you plead.

“Gonna fuck it outta you,” he says, voice rough. “Every fuckin’ lie. Every voice that ever made you think you weren’t perfect. I’ll fuck them out and fill you up till you can’t even think anymore.”

“You don’t talk about my girl like that,” he snarls into the skin of your back. “Not even you.”

[empresskylo]

simon riley is not usually very vocal in bed. he’ll grunt here and there. tell who he’s with how to move or what to do. but other than that, quiet. but when he fucks you, he can’t contain the feral noises, the growls, that escape him when he enters you for the first time. “Fuckin’ hell, love. gonna fuckin’ kill”—groan—“me. Never felt—jesus christ—something s’good.” 😋