Call me Dot! I’m mid 20’s, she/her, I write mainly for call of duty. I haven’t actually played CoD before so fair warning. I will post drabbles, headcannons, full stories and whatever else comes to mind! At this time I have no posting schedule.
A few housekeeping things:
This will be a nsfw blog, so please curate your own online experience wisely (ie. if you’re not comfortable don’t interact. Don’t like; don’t look).
However, I will tag accordingly (eg. smut, violence, etc), and if you feel I’ve missed something please tell me!
I will write for most things except the following: non-con, bestiality, vore/cannibalism, incest, underage. More will be added to this list as it comes along.
Do Not! use my work in or to train ai, I do not consent for any of my work to be republished without permission or with credit
If you’re unsure about anything, please ask!
About asks:
I’d love to hear your thoughts or questions, anons welcome!
That being said, please be respectful to me and others, any comments I deem disrespectful will be promptly deleted.
constructive criticism is appreciated as always, but again just be nice about it!
Even if you just want to share your ideas, (or pets, I love any cuddle bugs!) bombard me with them!
As I move along I will post a masterlist, and this list is subject to change…
The room stunk. Seriously; grade A, landfill in the summer, hot sewage level stink. Soap was pretty sure his eyes were burning, if he didn’t have such a strong stomach from going through his older sister’s ’experimental cooking’ stage, he would have tossed his cookies the moment he stepped into the decrepit house. Even from the outside he could have guessed it was a pigsty, the windows all boarded up and the paint peeling from the stucco (who paints stucco anyway? That alone could have given away what the rest of the house would be like). The inside, however, was so much worse. Putting aside the smell of stewing gym socks and rat feces, the house was small, small enough to see straight through to the back door from where Soap stood in the entryway, but nearly every inch of floor space was packed with… stuff. He wasn’t sure exactly what half of it was, and the other half he pretended he didn’t. But the important thing was that his target ran in here, and Soap was going to find him.
“Ah’m going tae shower for a week after this, should come have a whiff, Lt, might melt that mask right off,” Soap kept his voice low as he spoke into the comms, his gun raised as he carefully stepped over a pile of what might have once been come form of takeout and was now a steaming pile of mold.
“I’ll take a rain check on that one. Visual on the target?” Ghost’s voice crackled in through the other end into his ear, the comforting gruff tones a welcome distraction from the pungent aromas emitted from the house as Soap cleared each room at a time, vigilant as always.
“Negative, unless he’s cleverly disguised himself as the pile of shite in the corner” came Soap’s quick response when he entered the bathroom, which was somehow even worse smelling than the rest of the house, even the tiles of the shower looking like they were crying in agony with that putrid yellow they seemed to be oozing.
“Too many details, sergeant,” Ghost’s grumble was the last words exchanged before the sounds of gunfire shot through the airways, then an unnatural silence that had Ghost tensing, heart stopping when another beat passed with no response from the Scotsman.
“Soap, do you copy?” Ghost demanded after another beat, the gloves on his hands stretched thin over his knuckles with how hard his fists were clenched. “Answer me, sergeant.”
After Ghost was certain his heart had stopped for good a crackle came through the comms, followed by curses in a thick Scottish accent. “Bleedin’ thing— Ghost? Och, this better be workin’ now. I got ‘im, wee bastard was hidin’ behind the garbage, the shite he is.”
Ghost let out an audible huff after that, his stomach returning to where it belonged not in his throat, and he responded accordingly, all the while trying to hide just how frightened he had actually been for the first time since he first donned that mask. How much the mere thought of losing his Johnny set his brain into overdrive, and the way hearing his voice as snarky as always settled that tightness in his chest in a way nothing else could.
The mission was a success overall, though their target had ended up ‘as dead as mah bleedin’ sinuses’ as Soap put it, but that didn’t mean Ghost didn’t still have to spend hours after in debrief, longer even than Soap had before he was excused to go wash off the smell of that place. Ghost was almost certain he heard Price mutter something about burning those clothes instead of trying to wash the stench out. The whole time he was in that briefing though, Ghost felt as tense as a bowstring pulled taut, his hand pressed firmly to the top of his thigh to keep his knee from bouncing under the table. Hearing and seeing Johnny across the table from him wasn’t enough to soothe the gnawing in the back of Ghost’s skull that told him to make sure he was okay, truly okay. That intense need to make absolutely certain that Soap was really back with him that couldn’t be eased until Ghost had his fill of the other man.
Simon was up and stalking towards the sergeant’s quarters the minute Price dismissed him from the briefing, leaving a brooding cloud in his wake as he strode through the halls on the familiar route. He didn’t even bother knocking before he let himself in through the door and shut it firmly behind him with a click of the lock, giving a once-over to ensure the room was in order before walking with purpose to where Soap had paused mid-way through putting a fresh pair of trousers on, skin still glistening from just having exited the showers. Simon could smell the great improvement from when he’d first gotten back from the mission reeking of week old meat left out too long, and he didn’t say a word as his one gloved hand grabbed the Scotsman’s shoulders to pull him close, keeping him upright when he stumbled from having only one pant leg on, the other yanking his mask up and over the bridge of his nose before burying his face into the clean crook of Soap’s neck, inhaling deeply.
“Ach, what’re ye doin’, Lt? Cannae ye wait until ah’ve at least got mah bloody trousers on?” Soap’s mildly surprised response came after he’d steadied himself, though his protest only went so far with the way he tilted his head to the side to give the hulking man more access.
Ghost merely grunted in response, his eyes unknowingly having slid shut as he breathed in the scent of his sergeant, his glove hand still clasped almost desperately on Soap’s shoulder.
“Alright, I ken what ye need, Lt. Come on then,” Soap gently tugged the lieutenant towards the small bed that took up most of the space in his room, guiding him to following him down onto it, which Soap only lay on for a half a second before he was pulled close by two strong arms and hauled against an equally strong chest, held just a hair too tightly, but he didn’t mind. “Ah’m right here, Simon, ah’m with ye,” the words came out in a familiar and soothing Scottish lilt that had the larger man relaxing his hold just a fraction, but he didn’t let go, and neither did Soap.
Soap knew what Simon needed in this moment, he needed to not be the Ghost, to just be Simon and Johnny, and he needed to not worry any longer. The sound of a low groan that petered off into a moan when Johnny’s skilled hands worked over the tense muscles of Simon’s back and arms just confirmed to Soap what the man was craving, as did the word he rasped moments after.
“Johnny…” just that, nothing more. Just his name, in that whispered voice of gravel and need, but Soap heard everything that wasn’t said, he always did.
Clothes were soon shucked away and forgotten on floor, deft hands working in unison to the goal they both so clearly wanted, a heady mix of desire and desperation permeating the air around them as hands roamed over well acquainted with skin. The exploration stopped when Johnny took those pale wrists in his hands, thumb running over the scars, new and old, with unbridled adoration that nearly undid Simon right then. Soap guided those hands onto his chest, letting Simon’s fingers trace over his skin, warm and alive, feeling the man’s heart beating and in doing so soothing his own heart, that need to know that his Johnny was safe and exactly where he belonged.
Simon could feel that desperate part of him settle, and in its place bloomed that familiar heat that came with watching the Scotsman clear buildings with skill or set charges in such a delicate way for such a violent aftereffect. It sent his blood racing, and southbound did it go, filling out the considerable package lying no longer flaccid between them. Soap smirked when he felt the evidence of Simon’s arousal against his hip and thigh, saw the way his pupils dilated before his head lifted to start sucking marks onto Johnny’s glistening, clean skin.
“That all fer me, Lt?” Came Soap’s cocky response, his own hands leaving Simon’s wrists in favour of trailing down the man’s body, trailing over the dips and curves before settling on the backs of his thighs, settling himself between them.
“You know it is, sergeant. Gonna do somethin’ about it?” Simon’s voice was nearly all growl now, the same way it got whenever they were together after a mission like this, when adrenaline and excitement melded together to create a frenzied ardour that boiled over this.
“Gladly,” Soap’s grin was wicked and sent a spark of pure arousal shooting through Simon, sending his cock twitching against the layer of fat covering his abdomen, smearing precum against the scarred skin that was quickly lapped up by the Scotsman’s tongue, earning a groan from the other man. “Ye look so bonnie like this, Simon, should leave my mark on ye,”
“No one’s stopping you, soldier,” this only seemed to fuel Soap’s enthusiasm, as he bend down again to this time sink his teeth into the pudge of Ghost’s stomach, earning himself another moan from the man.
Soap’s overeager tongue didn’t stop at his abdomen, licking and sucking his way down, down, until it was laving over Simon’s hole, getting grunts and groans of appreciation from both men as they lost themselves to the sensations. But soon Simon determined this wasn’t enough for him, and rough hands were pulling at the mohawk until blue eyes, wide with pleasure, met his again, and a bottle of lube found in the bedside table were pushed into the sergeant’s hands in an unspoken command.
Slick fingers were steadily pushed into Simon’s greedy hole, finding his prostate with eery familiarity with each push inside until the man was all but panting for his sergeant to ‘hurry up and fuck him’, which was answered with equal fervour to do so. Soap wrapped his already slick hand around his own cock, his back bowing for his forehead to hit against Simon’s shoulder as shoots of pleasure shoot through him. But it wasn’t long until he was notching his crown against Ghost’s rim, the man’s own heels digging into his back to urge him to push inside faster.
“Such a bonnie thing you are, so eager for mah cock to fill ye?” Even through his own grunts of pleasure, Soap was still able to sound smug as he pressed inside his lieutenant, finding a frantic rhythm not long after, the desperation between them proving to be too much to draw out any longer.
“Oh—fuck, tha’s it Johnny, right there.” Simon’s moans were heavenly to Soap's ears as they drowned out even the sounds of skin slapping against skin.
He didn’t stop either, rutting into his lover until neither of them could take it any longer. Large hands gripped at Soap’s back as Simon’s thighs shook where they bracketed his hips, their breaths mingling with the way their foreheads were pressed together, grunts and pants all that either could manage to make. The fervency took over, Johnny’s hips picking up the pace use one hand snuck between them to pump Simon’s cock in time with his thrusts, breathless words of encouragement and praise huffed out in that Scottish lilt. Breaths picked up, and with a cry of the others name they each fell over that edge of pleasure, spent spilled between bodies and deep inside another, shaky limbs tangling with one another in the aftermath, sweat melding with release in a sticky mess neither could care to clean in that moment.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight sergeant.” Ghost growled into the Soap’s ear in a way that promised this night wasn’t over just yet.
“Copy tha’, Lt” came a slurred and contented response, and a twitching of the cock inside him when Ghost flipped them both, a dark glint in his eye that Johnny knew all too well meant only the best kind of trouble.
I may or may not have fallen asleep while proofreading this, so any mistakes are fully in the responsibility of the sleep gnomes (they’re real, trust me guys, they steal keyboards)
This has been a very long hiatus I’ve been on, and believe me it’s not been intentional. But I’m back in the game! I have a lot of drafts I’m going to be working on now, but why not start with a healthy dose of Ghost in denial? Enjoy as always :)
“Somethin’ you need help with, sergeant?” Ghost’s unexpected words had Soap jolting from where he had been invested with his search. His hands froze where they were slowly opening the heavy wooden drawer, the cool brass of the knob a contrast to the warmth of his fingers. Turning his head slowly, Soap painted a crooked grin onto his mouth, not nearly enough shame from someone just caught snooping through their commanding officer’s underwear drawer, or trying to at least.
“Naw, I’m doin’ jus fine on my own here,” Soap straightened from where he had been bent over, his knee bumping the partially open drawer as he moved to lean against the end table and crossing his arms over his muscular chest.
“That so? S’pose I should just ask then. What are you doing in my quarters, MacTavish?” Ghost stepped further into his own room, his hulking frame blocking the light coming in from the hallway and casting Soap in his shadow. Most would have cowered at the steely look in the man’s eyes, but not Soap. No, the Scotsman apparently had no sense of self preservation as his smirk only widened.
“Oh, you know, jus’ lookin’, didnae think ye’d be back so soon. Slacking on your training now, Lt?” Soap seemed to grow only more cocky as his lieutenant scowled and stalked closer, moving around the bed to stand directly in front of him. Even with only wearing a plain black balaclava, the large Brit was still just as intimidating as when he was decorated like something out of a horror movie.
Ghost didn’t glorify the question with a response, instead he asked in a low grunt, “What do you think you were lookin’ for, sergeant?”
Soap met Ghost’s dark eyes with his own, unabashed as he answered with a glint of mischievousness in his bright blue irises. “I ken I was lookin’ fer somethin’ ye took from me, Simon”
Soap didn’t miss the way the larger man’s breath stopped for just a beat at those words. That, and at the sound of his real name from the Scot’s lips, barely enough to be noticeable to anyone, yet he saw it all the same. It was the one thing Ghost couldn’t control about himself, the way he reacted his—no, not his, he had to remind himself—the sergeant. Ghost had spent years training and honing his body into the perfect weapon, not a single movement not calculated, every act or thought or word from his mouth was deliberate and brutal. Until those blue eyes blazed through it all like wildfire, burning every wall he’d erected down in a way that stole his breath away each time it happened. And Soap knew it too, knew the affect he had on his lieutenant, knew it in the way the usually so tense man would calm whenever he stepped into the room with him; in the way his life-ending threats turned to little more than idle banter when directed at the Scot; knew that even a hint of Johnny himself was enough to calm his normally so turbulent thoughts, which is what brought him to Ghost’s room in the first place.
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Came the expected words or denial, which Soap took in stride as he stepped closer, closing some of the distance between them.
“Och, but I ken tha’ ye do. Yer the only one I leave my sketchbook unattended around, and now it’s gone missin’. An’ I ken that ye took it” Soap stepped even closer, nearly chest to chest with the other man now, close enough he could hear the forced evenness to his breaths, the way his eyes held so firmly to their look of indifference despite the turbulence he knew was going on inside his head. “So tell me, Lt, is it in there?”
Ghost’s eyes followed Soap’s finger as it pointed behind him to the bedside table that seemed to just scream suspicion with the way a dark gap was left between the drawer and the table itself where it hadn’t quite closed all the way before. Though he said nothing, the silence was answer enough, and was apparently also enough for Soap to hook a finger in the gap and slowly pull the drawer open, a single faux-leather bound sketchbook lying atop the neatly rolled stacks of socks and boxers and spare balaclavas.
Neither man said anything for a few beats, the only sound in the room the dull hum of the base’s ancient central heating unit, but not once did Soap’s eyes leave Ghost’s. The room seemed to close in around Simon, narrowing to how his eyes burned into the worn cover of that damned sketchbook. He didn’t even know why he took it, honestly, it wasn’t as though he had set out to earlier that morning. But when Johnny had left the table they had both been sat at in the mess, called away to deal with something or another with some other kid Simon hardly took the time give more than a cursory glance over, and that book had been left behind along with his half-eaten plate of the bland foods that passed for breakfast around here. Ghost hardly noticed when his gloved fingers had started tracing over the cracked spine, over the discoloured tea stain on the front, over everything that was Johnny that had imprinted itself into the book. He didn’t even notice when the book was clasped in his hand and his feet were carrying him back to the solitude of his private quarters.
He remembered staring at the cover for a long time after, not even opening it to look at the sketches he knew was inside. Simon couldn’t fathom why he had so suddenly needed to take the book with him, all he knew was that the moment Johnny had left the mess it had become too loud, too grating, too much, the grounding sense of security he got from the Scotsman leaving with him, but holding that book—his book— in hands that were too covered on blood to ever be clean seemed to ease a part of him he didn’t like to think about. Ghost couldn’t remember when that feeling had started, or when it had become indistinguishable from a certain mohawk-ed sergeant, only that he craved it now, needed it if he was being honest with himself, which he never was.
Ghost hadn’t realized he had gone so quiet until a rough hand came to rest gently upon his shoulder, meeting those all too knowing blue eyes and hating the way they made his heart even out and go steady in a way nothing else could. Despite the way they could cut right through all the layers Ghost put up, Soap’s eyes did not hold any judgement in them, not even pity, just understanding and a patience Ghost didn’t think he deserved.
“Who knew the big bad Ghost was a thief under all that eyeblack? Must be what all the pockets are for” Soap’s chin jerked towards the tac vest the man always seemed to wear with a sly grin, his words holding just the right amount of playful mockery in them without becoming hurtful as he squeezed Ghost’s shoulder, his thumb sweeping just once the barest edge of his collarbone beneath those dark clothes.
Simon didn’t feel a pleasant shiver at the touch, just as he didn’t feel a pang of longing when the Scotsman eventually left his room with a departing wink. He certainly didn’t feel a warmth spark in his cold chest when he noticed that same sketchbook lying just where it was before in his drawer. No, he didn’t feel of that, just as he didn’t feel himself falling harder for the man every day, because it couldn’t ever be ‘Johnny’ that the beat of his heart spelled out each morning his fingers traced over that book cover, couldn’t be that same name he found himself uttering when he prayed for the first time since the first bruise appeared on his cheek as a boy, clutching that ever-warm hand in his as the beeping of the monitors echoed in the hospital room, a bandage covering one side of his sergeant’s head. He didn’t feel any of that, but he did feel something when blue pierced through the sterile room for the first time, and Simon started to breathe again.
Captain’s good little soldier ~Price x afab!reader (nsfw)
So, it’s been a minute, but what better way to fix writers block than being horny? There is no plot here, just a captain going down on his soldier who couldn’t keep it in her pants. But who is he kidding, neither could he.
“Is this what my good little soldier wanted, hm?” John’s deep blue eyes watched you from between your spread thighs, already trembling from the barely-there kisses he’d pressed to them, not even enough to leave a mark. “Wanted your captain to have his way with you right here on my desk?”
Even kneeling between your legs he managed to look completely composed, riling you up with his calmly spoken words that only served to send shivers racing up your spine when combined with the hungry look in his eyes. Those blue eyes nearly black with want were the only things that gave away how he wanted this almost as badly as you did, if not more. That, and the press of his hard cock against the confines of his tight jeans. You loved those jeans on him, aside from him wearing nothing at all you would have to say they were your favourite to see him in, a little worn and a little too tight for all that thick muscle and that perfect biteable layer of fat he had that had your poor clit throbbing just watching him walk away.
“Yes, sir, this is exactly what I want,” even to you your voice sounded strained, but in your defence having this absolute unit of a man about one breath from eating you out atop his desk in his own office was more than most people could handle.
“That’s what I thought, my pretty little thing couldn’t wait until I was off duty. No, she had to come all the way to my office right before a briefing to beg me to go down on her, isn’t that right, dove?” His self-satisfied smirk as that skilled tongue trailed oh so slowly up your inner thigh made you all too aware of how empty you were right now, and how badly you wanted that remedied.
“As much as I like seeing your eyes go glassy like that, you’ll have to use your words if you want something from me, soldier. So what will it be, hm? What do you want your captain to do to you?” His voice was like velvet, washing over your heated body to pool in your gut, throbbing with want.
“Please, sir, I need to cum, I need to cum on your mouth,” you didn’t care how breathy your voice was by now, not when your words had the effect on him they did.
“Oh fuck, that’s my good girl,” you could feel his groan travel straight through your pussy when he buried his face between your thighs, mouth open wide like he wanted to devour you completely.
Your head was thrown back as your hands clutched at the edges of his desk, and you had to remind yourself not to be so loud. But the way his tongue laved circles around your sopping entrance only to drag back up and tease your clit was making it increasingly more difficult. Your efforts were all for not, however, when he sealed his lips over your hole and sucked. You were not prepared for how good that would feel, not with how you nearly came right then and there. And Price knew it too, knew it in the way his eyes twinkled when he did it again, in the way he gripped the plush of your thighs harder to keep them spread, the way he groaned against you when you moaned his name.
“Tha’s it, dove, jus’ let yourself feel good.” His accent thickened with arousal as he dove right back in, one of his hands moving from your thigh to your mouth, tapping three fingers against your lips, which you diligently parted them for.
Three thick fingers pressed deliciously against your tongue as his own worked its way into your hole, a slick little ‘pop’ sound came when he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, using his thumb to wide away the trail of drool at the corner of your mouth. Those very same fingers started working over your clit with that perfect pressure while his tongue alternated between spearing in and out of your cunt and lapping up every drop of your arousal. It was messy, sloppy, and you were pretty sure you were going to have beard burn on the inside of your thighs tomorrow, but you didn’t care, especially not when his blue eyes were locked onto yours like they were. He didn’t just want you to cum, he needed you to.
It was that look that pushed you over the edge, sucking in gasps of air as a whole body shutter ran through you. He worked you over through the whole thing, fingers keeping up their rhythm as he lapped up your cum like it was his favourite treat. His beard was slick by the time he pulled his face up, looking like a man satisfied as he pulled you to sitting on his desk, strong arms holding you to his chest.
“Was that what you needed, dove? Just needed your man to make you cum?” His words weren’t even taunting this time, he just sounded so pleased with himself at the way you nodded wordlessly, melting into the scent of paper and strong cigars.
John helped you get yourself sorted afterwords, plenty of praise and kisses doled out as he straightened your clothes and wiped your thighs clean. You never had to wonder if he’d enjoyed himself, from the way he smirked and the tent still evident in his pants told you all you needed to know. And yet when you offered to return the favour he merely smirked.
“Oh no, dove, much as I love those pretty lips around my cock, I have something much better in mind for you after my briefing. I’ll just have to wait a little while longer,” his lips pressing against yours when he finished speaking quashed any further objections from you, and with the way his hand slipped down to the plump of your backside when he walked you to the door, you knew that it would be well worth the wait.
extra | team 141 character introductions
extra | konig + horangi character introductions
extra | las almas crew + graves character introduction
part ? | price/gaz rooftop talks
part 1 | bag of tricks
part 2 | ghost/soap muzzle
part 3 | price+ghost check in
part 4 | ghost + soap + gaz in action (part 1)
part 5 | ghost + soap + gaz in action (part 2)
part 6 | ghost + soap + gaz in action (part 3)
part 7 | sketchdump 1
part 8 | ghost/soap chasing tail
part 9 | soap/fantasy!ghost (full vers on patreon)
part 10 | ghost/soap docile
part 11 | ghost/price due diligence
part 11.5 | ghost/soap due diligence (nsfw - only available on patreon)
part 12 | ghost/price holding back pt 1
part 13 | ghost/price holding back pt 2
part 14 | soap/gaz doing things blind (only available on patreon)
part 15 | konig/horangi clear
part 16 | sketchdump 2
part 17 | debrief
part 18 | ghost/soap work it out (part 1)
part 19 | ghost/soap work it out (part 2)
part 20 | cockatrice (part 1)
part 21 | cockatrice (part 2)
part 22 | sketchdump 3/puppy playtime
part 23 | new moon (part 1)
part 24 | new moon (part 2)
part 25 | new moon (part 3)
part 26 | open book
part 27 | face to a name
part 28 | before
part 29 | that’s an order
part 30 | diplomacy
part 31 | mr riley
part 32 | human
part 33 | wraith
part 34 | sitting ducks
part 35 | negotiations
part 36 | monster
part 37 | bloodsucker
part 38 | the lieutenant's arrived
part 39 | he keeps his promises
part 40 | i'm sorry john.
part 41 | mutt
part 42 | limitations part 1
part 43 | limitations part 2
part 44 | limitations part 3
part 45 | hoard (nsfw, only on patreon)
part 46 | hoard part 2 (full comic on patreon)
part 47 | mask off
part 48 | aware part 1
part 49 | aware part 2
part 50 | reward (part 1) (suggestive)
part 51 | reward (part 2) (nsfw - full comic only available on patreon)
part 52 | reward (part 3) (nsfw - full comic only available on patreon)
part 53 | catchup
part 54 | brief
part 55 | group huddle
part 56 | quid pro quo
part 57 | wing thing
part 58 | generous
part 59 | learning moment (part 1)
part 60 | learning moment (part 2)
part 61 | shy
part 62 | the viper and the vampire
part 63 | easy pickings
part 64 | bogey
part 65 | trapdoor
part 66 | birdie
part 67 | detonate
part 68 | priorities
part 69 | blindspot
part 70 | blindspot (part 2)
haiiiii hai hai :3 i did it !! this is my nikprice exchange fic for @whimsicallygrotesque, who asked for established nikprice, sub price, and praise kink. i hope this meets the brief <33 many kisses and flowers and yaois to @nikprice-gift-exchange for organizing. happy nikprice winter to all <33
tags: gross disgusting domestic bliss, feminization/wife kink (a lot. my boner took the wheel.), so much detail abt food, sub price, handjobs, spit. this is lowkey over 2k but nobody tell the gift exchange mods shhhhhhhh (i had to cut down the food desc a bit lol)
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What minimal sentimentality John Price has is restrained for special occasions and trusted comrades, ground down to a nub by years of bloodshed.
He’s using every drop of it for this endeavor, consulting his meticulously detailed action planning documents, and pausing every few minutes to tamp down the voice in his head telling him to book a same-day flight to Canada and never come back. For one, Nik would absolutely find him. For another, he would come back immediately if Nik called. The whole mental endeavor is a bit of a dead-end.
Thankfully, he isn’t given much time to worry. There’s fragrant gingerbread in the toaster oven, a plump roast in the full-size oven, olivier salad in a glass bowl on the table, and a heavy paper bag of warm piroshky from the stand two neighborhoods over that Nik always stops by when he has the chance. A bottle of Distiller’s Edition Lagavulin sits in the front of the pantry, and a bottle of Stolichnya rests in the freezer. Nikolai is inbound from something in South America, and Price is enjoying the plausible deniability granted by not knowing what it is. John got a text almost an hour ago that he had landed, followed by another text that he had to put his phone down after reading.
Suffice to say, he could be home any minute, and there’s plating and carving and place setting to do. Price bought a table runner and some tasteful trivets. Nik would be happy even if Price presented him with a Christmas Eve takeaway next to a twig on fire, but Price’s goal isn’t to prepare something adequate. Like all his endeavors, this needs to be ruthlessly effective. There are so many things Price can’t say, that get stuck in his throat when they’re tangled up in bed or patching up after an op. And Nik doesn’t mind, but he’s waited so long already. Price wants to give him this, this whole domestic concerto, this peek into a life neither of them thought they’d get to have, let alone share. Soft landings are a rare luxury for men like them.
So there’s an action plan document. It’s about ten pages long, includes recipes and annotations from Simon, who’s actually worth a damn in the kitchen. John’s been planning this in bits and pieces for at least three months. He still feels like a blushing maiden meeting a sweetheart for the first time, his stomach turning so he can barely taste his own cooking for seasoning. More nervous than he’s been in years, more nervous that he’s ever been at the end of a gun. He puts his hand over the roast in the oven to reorient himself with the near-pain of the heat. He takes the temperature of the roast in two spots, consults the table on page 8 of the plan, and then checks it again. He wraps his hands in a tea towel and takes the roast out.
He’s halfway through carving it when he hears Nik’s heavy boots at the doormat, and the click of his key in the first of three locks. His hands fly to check the pockets of the combat vest he isn’t wearing, and he redirects them to run a hand through his hair, damp with steam. He walks to the door, which opens right on cue.
Nik’s bouquet walks in before he does. It’s a ridiculous thing, bursting out from the crook of his arm in a riot of reds. It’s mostly poinsettias and roses, with some tasteful greenery and pinecones slipped in. Price crosses his arms and leans against the nearest wall in the mudroom and doesn’t move to help him.
Nik grunts and fumbles for a few seconds before he seems to spot Price over the petals, and his eyes crease with delight so quickly it makes something thaw in Price’s chest. “John! How lovely to see you again!” He manages to get the bouquet on top of the shoe rack.
Price scoffs fondly. “We both live here, Nik.” He goes to his knees and starts unlacing Nik’s boots while Nik shrugs off his overcoat and closes the door. Nik gives him a heated look when he does, and Price distracts himself from how hard his cock twitched by pretending his knees hurt from the motion. They don’t, but they’re certainly not as reliable as they were twenty years ago.
“Ah, but you are still lovely, hm? My pretty wife, making the house a home, yes?”
Price swats him on the knee. There’s sand and mud in the welt of Nik’s boot’s, and the laces are cold from the winter air. “Don’t say that until you see dinner. I could still slip something into your soup.” He pats one of Nik’s boots once it’s loose enough to slip out of, and Nik obliges him, landing a quick press of lips to his forehead as he leans down. Then another as he comes up. Then a quick nibble over the shell of his ear.
“You would not do it. No one else would agree to live with you.” Nik puts a hand in Price’s hair, and then it’s as if he’s magnetic. Price undoes his other boot, but Nik refuses to take his hands off of him, so Price nudges his foot up and takes the boot off himself. “I thought we were having dinner first? You look like dessert down there, lyubimy.”
“Geroff’ me,” Price says as he stands and gently bumps Nik’s hands off himself. “We are having dinner, keep it in your flight suit.” He starts walking back into the house, trying to move fast enough to keep Nik’s hands out of his shirt, but— “Ow, bloody Christ, that’s cold! Ya bastard.”
Nik chuckles, still attached, warming up his hands on Price’s soft stomach and kissing him just high enough on the jaw to be suggestive without being lecherous. “Miliy, I’ve missed you while I was away in the cold. You would deny me my comforts?”
“Hardly cold, it was 30° on half the continent. Sit yer ass down and have some dinner.”
Price feels Nik register the decorated dining table from his space in the crook of Price’s shoulder, and his hands tighten their grip on Price. Price knows his keen eyes are sweeping over the roast with the knife still sticking out, the electric candles, the red table runner, the olivier and piroshky and mashed potatoes and bottles on the counter.
Nik sighs like a man sinking into a hot bath and Price’s ribs give a little with the strength of his hold. “Ah, your cruel words mean nothing to me when you treat me so well.”
“Sit down.”
Nik does. Must be honestly tired then. Usually he tries to bend John over the kitchen table a few more times. John dishes him up a plate and pours him a glass of the good stuff, ignoring both the flush creeping up his ears and Nik’s gaze from the table. “You were feeling festive this year, old friend?” Price knows he’s asking what’s the occasion? It’s not their first Christmas, and they don’t do nothing, but this production is rather excessive for Price.
He shrugs. “Three, four years now? Figured it was time I did something nice.”
“Mmh.” He hears Nik taking a long, slow sip of whiskey. “Could have dolled up for me.” Price sputters, and spins to see Nik grinning. “Is sweet of you to make a whole op of it, lyubimy.” He nods to the counter, to the packet Price has been working on and from for months.
Price can’t help feeling a bit embarrassed, defenseless. He puts Nik’s plate down in front of him a bit harder than necessary. He ends up making a kind of strangled sound in his throat, coughs to cover it up. He sits down in his own chair decisively and stares decisively at the mashed potatoes as Nik tucks in.
And Nik takes his sweet time, savoring every bite like a five-star meal. Letting out little moans and hums. Staring John right in the eye while he lifts soft forkfuls of roast ham into his mouth. John takes a pull of Lagavulin very quickly, and then regrets it. Fuck, that’s good whiskey.
Nik clears his plate. John doesn’t know how long it takes, just that it feels like forever. He picks at his own mashed potatoes, at the roast and the salad, and thinks about how much of it can fit into their scant Tupperware. He thinks about other things Nik can do with that mouth. He gives gruff reports on where he got his recipes, where he bought the table runner. Nik’s eyes glitter while he does.
But eventually, Nik sets his fork down for the last time and leans over the table like a predator. “Is the chef taking orders for dessert?”
Price knows this dance, but he still doesn’t skip any steps. “I’ve got some cookies in the oven. It depends on what you want.”
“Ah, is a secret. Come lean in and I will tell you very quiet.” Nik scoots back in his chair a bit and John stands from his own chair, standing over Nik, starting to lean in.
Nik spreads his strong thighs and sweeps John’s knees, one warm hand at the nape of his neck pulling him off balance. He finds himself in Nik’s lap, with Nik’s erection pressing up against his thigh. “Much better,” Nik purrs. “A man misses his wife when he must be away. What a sweet little welcome, sladkaya.” And his voice rumbles against John’s neck as he slips a rough hand between John’s thighs, shamelessly groping his steadily-hardening cock. “So good to me, so tame, hm?”
John tries to find something to say as Nik sucks a mark into his throat. “Welcome home, Nik. I-” It catches in his throat. “I thought you’d like it. Thought it’d be nice, havin’ a little somethin’ home-cooked.”
Nik kisses him hard, like a blizzard. Puts his palm against John’s stomach, where his thick hair gathers and leads down, peppered with greys. Chuckles breathily as his hot fingertips dip into John’s waistband. “Very nice. I would marry you all over again for this.” He swirls his thumb in a tight circle over John’s dense hair, then freezes. He pulls the waistband of John’s sweats towards himself, and peers into his groin.
John swallows, keeps his eyes on Nik, trying to gauge his reaction. It could be a miscalculation, it could be-
Nik groans long and low, like it’s being ripped out of him, when he sees the lacy red jockstrap John’s been wearing for the past two hours. “Oh, miliy… You did doll up for me, after all. Such a pretty little thing. Fuck.” He runs a rough fingertip over the spot in the lace John’s been leaking into, and John twitches in his arms. “Shhh. Let me enjoy my gift, lapochka? Open for me?”
Price does, but he can’t help groaning, arching a bit as Nik gently pinches at the head of his cock, feeling the lace against it. “Nik, fuck, get on with it, c’mon…”
“Mm.” Nik uses his grip on John’s thigh to grind his ass down into Nik’s thick cock, but shifts a bit, kissing along his collarbones.
John loses track of his hands, then he hears the metallic snick of a pocketknife opening, and yelps, thrashing a bit. “Fuckin’ hell, Nik, the fuck are y-”
“Hold still for me, hm? Be sweet for me.” And against his better judgement, John lets Nik put the sharp edge of his utility knife down where it could do real damage. Nik carefully cuts across the gusset of the jock, freeing a flap of lace. John’s cock pops up to attention, fat and hard, leaking desperate little pearls of precum. The knife never touches his skin, but the feeling of it puncturing through the tensioned fabric has John getting unimaginably harder, knowing Nik could really hurt him. Knowing Nik’s careful enough not to. Nik flicks the knife closed and sets it on the table. “Shh, sh, it’s okay. Such a good, sweet thing.” He brings the hand that isn’t gently fisted in John’s hair to John’s mouth. “Now get it nice and wet for your papochka.”
John throws his head back, as much as Nik will let him, and groans. He rolls his tongue around his mouth, licks Nik’s hand a few times like a shy deer, then spits in it. Nik brings the pool of spit down and spreads it over John’s needy dick with a filthy shlick, starts pumping him firm and slow. John’s been too busy putting all this together to take care of himself, and he finds himself panting and whining with sensitivity as Nik strokes him. He finds himself close far, far too fast.
He covers his mouth with his hands, flinches away as if it would make the sensation any less perfect. “Nik, Nik, sorry, please, I’m—”
And Nik rumbles into his ear again, which sends a shiver up John’s spine at the best of times. “Go ahead, lyubimy. Spill all over papochka’s lap, make yourself feel good.”
And John comes so hard he almost whites out, feeling it pulse through his balls and ooze over Nik’s fingers. Nik keeps fucking talking as John’s orgasm rocks through his core. “Good, beautiful, lovely. My wife loves me so much, miliy, that right? Getting your clit rubbed over the dinner you made for me? So fucking pretty.” John’s cock gives one more valiant twitch, Nik milking out the last of his sticky come, and then he just keeps stroking, doesn’t stop while John twitches and tries to wiggle away. Holds him down.
“Where are you going, lyubimy? I have to say thank you for the meal. Have to taste you like a good husband should.”
All John can do is groan helplessly as Nik bends him over the table.
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
author's notes:
nik's gift to john is a box of excellent cuban cigars. he forgets this until like the next day because hes too busy fucking his wife
simon helped with the cooking, kyle helped with the home decor, and soap helped with the brainstorming and logistics. team effort :3
nik's in his flight jacket and flight suit for this entire fic. gets me hard idk abt yall
This is for @niresenrab as a part of the @nikprice-gift-exchange, they have asked for angst, domestic fluff, and dad!core NikPrice, so I hope you enjoy this piece!
“Лучик, will you stop moving around for just one moment?” Nikolai had been all but chasing after John all day, trying desperately to get the other man to take a moment to relax, but it seemed John was decidedly against the idea, deftly avoiding Nikolai’s attempts to persuade him into taking even a short break. And it was driving the Russian crazy, and not in the fun way he usually drove him crazy.
“There’s a lot to do today Nik, Laswell’s been picking up whispers of that terrorist cell we’ve been chasing, and thanks to Soap’s latest ‘demonstration’, I have more paperwork to do than bloody Santa Claus right now” Price didn’t even stop his brisk pace down the hall from the files room to his office as he spoke. As he quickened his own steps to match his pace, Nikolai started to regret how much he indulged in Christmas cookies this past week, hastening his stride further as they rounded a corner to keep up with the other man.
“But it is Christmas, I’m sure it can wait one more day,” Nik argued, managing to grab John’s arm to halt him in his march back to his office. “Come, relax a little. I heard Soap and Gaz were making gingerhouses this year, perhaps we could join them”
“It’s gingerbread houses Nik, and Christmas is tomorrow, not today,” Price corrected, giving him an exasperated look when he was stopped.
“Tomato, potato, John, you deserve a rest,” despite the genuine intention of Nik insisting on John enjoying the holiday, he did have to hide his smirk when he intentionally messed up the old saying, knowing it aggravated John to no end.
“Nik,” John’s tone was warning, but even then Nikolai could see he was wearing the other man down.
“Come, Лучик, I will treat you to my famous spiked eggnog” Nikolai suggested while putting his strong arm over the Brit’s shoulders, leading him the opposite direction of his office and to the doors of the building they were in.
“It’s 9 in the morning, Nik, a bit early for alcohol don't you think?” Price pointed out, though he let the Russian guide him down the hall and to the exit.
“Nonsense, that is what the holiday times are all about,” Nikolai protested, tugging his partner a bit closer as they walked.
“Getting drunk?” John asked skeptically, if a bit amused at the concept.
“No, letting loose a bit.” Nikolai corrected as they stepped out of the office building, the chill of the winter air making their breath fog up with each exhale. “And maybe getting a little drunk”
That, at least, got a chuckle out of the overworked captain, the sound filling Nikolai with a sense of accomplishment as it did whenever he elicited the sound from the other man. It was one of his favourite activities to do when they were together, trying to see how often he could make John smile, or laugh better yet. Although if he were asked, he would have to say his favourite sound he could get John to make would be the half-gasp half-moan he made when Nikolai first pushes into him. No matter how many times they have been together, that sound John makes always serves to make Nikolai’s gut heat with flames of desire like no other.
That line of thought has Nikolai’s mind going through other memories of their times together, his head filling with images of his partner laid out beneath him, expression filled with bliss. Or images of him speared on his cock and riding him with the same intensity he did when commanding the men in his task force. Price seems to notice the heady gaze zeroed in on him and turns his head to look at Nikolai inquisitively.
“What’s that look for Nik?” John questioned, the sounds of their boots crunching down on the light snowfall that had frozen over from the night before the only other sound on the base at the moment.
“Just thinking of you, Лучик,” Nikolai answered, entangling their fingers together as he subtly changed their course direction to one of the unused hangers that were always left empty.
“Is that so?” Price mused, though he couldn't deny the uptick in his heart’s rhythm as he recognized the man’s tone from years being together, “and just what about me has you leading me to an abandoned hanger then?”
“Ah, so you noticed,” Nikolai’s smirk seemed to give away how he wasn't really trying all that hard to hide it as he quickened his pace to said hanger.
“I’m a captain, Nik. I notice everything,” Price reminded with an answering smirk of his own as the two stepped under the overhang above the door to the hanger. “So what made you decide to drag me her–”
His words were cut off with a mouth latching onto his with a hunger he had come to look forward to, and one that he matched with his own. Nikolai’s hands slipped down Price’s back and gripped onto his backside, pulling the other man against him with an appreciative groan into his mouth. Price responded in kind by trailing his callused hands up the Russian’s arms and shoulders to tangle his fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, thumb brushing over that gold chain he never went anywhere without.
“Fuck, John, you have no idea how hot you make me,” Nikolai rasped against the other man’s lips, punctuating his words with a nip to his bottom lip that had Price groaning into the kiss.
“Think I have an inkling,” John responded, one hand teasing down Nikolai’s body to palm at the front of his pants, eliciting a filthy curse that only served to make John himself harder.
“You are playing dirty, Лучик,” Nikolai whispered as he trailed kisses along Price’s neck, hauling him closer against him with one hand while the other grappled for the door handle, herding them both inside once he got it open.
Nikolai had John pinned against the back of the door once it was shut behind them, his mouth latching back onto his as the kiss became more heated, hands wandering as muffled grunts and gasps filling the hanger. So caught up in one another they failed to notice they were not alone, having unwittingly stumbled upon where Soap and Gaz had decided to build their gingerbread house. A whispered comment sounding from behind them was what finally drew them apart when they heard a scottish tinged voice mutter ‘Looks like dads’ found some time alone,’ which was followed up by the thump of a hand hitting the back of a head and a response of ‘they're not alone you muppet, we’re here’.
Nikolai, ever the unfazed one, couldn't help but chuckle at that, pulling away from John’s kiss swollen lips to look at the two sergeants. Price, on the other hand, was busy attempting to cool his heated cheeks and clearing his throat to get back to his usually gruff exterior.
“You kids always been voyeurs?” Came John’s muttered comment, earning a snicker from Soap.
“Ah, but perhaps we should have checked to see if we were alone first.” Nikolai pointed out while adjusting his clothes from where they had become disheveled.
Price grumbled how that was not helpful to them at the moment before his eyes seemed to notice what the two boys had been doing before, brows rising higher with each detail he noticed.
A nearly six feet tall concoction of gingerbread and icing supports stood before them, the bones of an unfinished and all too large gingerbread house. Gaz’s tired sigh when John noticed could only tell that the idea for this monstrosity had been a certain Scotsman’s. Before he could even ask, Soap “helpfully” supplied him with his unasked question’s answer.
“‘Tis a Soap-sized gingerbread house, sir.” he declared proudly, standing to his full height beside the thing for scale, which was indeed built to his size.
With Nikolai cackling beside him at the hilarity of the situation, Price could only pinch the bridge of his nose as Soap continued unperturbed. “Wan’tae help, Da?”
Against his better judgement, Price found himself agreeing to help build the oversized gingerbread and icing anomaly. He would never admit it, but he was always a softy to the way Soap would call him ‘Da’ like that, especially with how Nikolai animatedly agreed to the activity too.
It managed to take up quite a few hours, and more icing that John thinks he has ever seen in his life, but even he couldn't deny how his stern heart seemed to beat a little lighter with each gumdrop that was put onto the house. And the activity did wonders for morale once they opened the doors to the hanger to help cool the icing quicker (Soap’s idea, naturally, as he claimed the heaters they had set up in the hanger were only melting the icing). Other soldiers who had remained on base for the holidays started joining in on the festivities, even the stone-hearted Ghost made an appearance, though it could be argued he was only there to critique Soap’s decorating skills.
It was well into the evening by the time the impromptu teambuilding session had slowly dispersed, the other soldiers wandering off to do their own thing on the eve before Christmas, Soap managing to drag Ghost off under the pretense of cleaning the icing off the icing on his mask, though anyone with eyes knew how their evening would end. Gaz was the last to leave, aside from Price and Nikolai, heading off to call his family for their Christmas Eve tradition of opening Christmas cards they each exchanged and seeing which one could write the sappiest one (which, according to Gaz, has been his youngest sister three years running).
“And then it was two,” Price commented as he and Nik stepped back to admire the gingerbread house they had all made, watching as the icing dripped down the sides and candies clung to strange places. Despite the odd nature of the creation, neither of them could deny it was certainly not boring.
“Can’t say I’ve ever built a gingerbread house like this before,” John remarked as his arm slipped around Nikolai’s waist comfortably. “The kids did well”
“Da, they did. And this is not just any gingerbread house, it is a gingerbread home.” Nikolai smiled warmly as he wrapped his arm over John’s shoulders, his expression completely earnest despite the cheesiness of the line.
“Nik, I think you’ve been watching too many of those hallmark movies” John spoke with amusement lacing his tone, though even he couldn’t deny it was a sweet sentiment.
“Eh, they were on all day” Nik replied with a shrug, causing Price to chuckle once more.
“Well, if this is our gingerbread home, it is a bit of a mess,” John spoke as he popped a gumdrop into his mouth from the top of the Soap-sized building.
“Ah,” Nik began, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “but that is the best kind of home, then it is never boring. And if it is ever too messy, we blame it on the sergeants”
The sound of John’s booming laughter echoed in the icing-covered hanger as the base seemed to settle into a calmness that was rare but treasured for the two, and Nikolai thought that that alone was enough of a Christmas present to last him the year.
Also, Лучик (luchik) means sunray I just like to imagine that it Nikolai, Price is his light, the sort of person who makes his day brighter (aww, I know, so sappy of me) so I think it fits.
aah! I had no idea I’d reached so many people until I saw the notification for this! I am so so happy that so many of you like what I’ve written, I appreciate every single one of you! Thank you thank you!
I have a headcanon that Ghost is innately left handed, but was forced into being right handed, and as a result now has poorer handwriting.
tl;dr: Ghost’s father likely enforced Simon through physical means to abandon his innate left-handedness under the belief that it was wrong, or merely as an excuse to punish him. This left Simon as right handed, which meant the legibility of his handwriting was poor.
Some links: On the history of left-handedness, and Impacts of forced right-handedness
Okay, so for a lot of left-handed children, depending on where and when you lived, it was very much not okay to be left handed. And this viewpoint persisted into the 20th century, so likely during the time when Ghost was growing up in Manchester, he was subject to some of the “training” to make him right handed. Some places were quite drastic in their measures against left-handedness, such as in Japan where it was cause for a divorce if the woman was left-handed, and others had more of a social pressure to not be left handed.
Whatever the case, based on what we know of Ghost’s upbringing and his likely abusive childhood, his father would have conformed to the idea that right-handedness was natural, and in turn left-handedness was inherently wrong. It was mainly found in Catholic schools during the 60’s and 70’s that strapping a child’s left hand to a desk or the use of physical punishments were used, so it would be unlikely to be observed in school that Simon was forced into right-handedness. This being said, I believe that Ghost’s father would likely use physical punishments at home when he caught Ghost writing with his left hand due to his own upbringing and beliefs that being left handed was wrong.
As for the resulting poor handwriting legibility, one study found that forced right-handedness impacts the motor skills used to write and other simple finger movements. This could mean that Ghost, especially with his traumatic background, would struggle with writing in a way that felt unnatural, leaving him to have poor handwriting.
In other words, this is a very long winded way to say Ghost has terrible handwriting, was forced into being right handed by his crappy father, and as a result probably naturally does other manual activities with his left hand.
just imagining Soap with a breeding kink, even though he knows he can’t get pregnant… (nsfw~Ghoap, breeding kink)
Ghost is already buried balls deep inside him, his scarred hands holding onto Soap’s hips to keep him lifted off the bed as each thrust has them grateful they have an outside wall with all the noise the bed is making hitting it. Johnny’s tanned legs are wrapped around Ghost’s waist, the heels of his feet digging into his lower back to keep him as close as possible even as Ghost’s hips piston back and forth. The sound of skin slapping almost drowns out the sound of the bed hitting the wall, but it’s nothing compared to the sounds that are coming out of Soap’s mouth, wrecked delicious sounds that have Ghost’s hips stuttering.
“Fuck Johnny-” even Simon’s voice sounded wrecked, his eyes trained on Soap’s leaking untouched cock bouncing against his stomach with each thrust of his hips, “keep clenchin’ like that and I won’t last long”
It takes a moment before Soap can answer, his eyes unfocused as they train on the sight of the larger man above him, skin glistening with sweat, face scrunched up in focus like each movement had to be as precise as when he was shooting a target on mission. The thought makes Soap’s cock twitch on his stomach where there’s already a sticky mess from the precum he’s been drooling out for who knows how long now.
“Ah want you to cum inside me Si, wan’tae be full of ye,” each word was a struggle to get out, but they certainly had their desired effect.
Ghost’s thrusts became sloppier, his own voice breathy with the strain of holding back from coming right then, the sight of Johnny so thoroughly ruined beneath him making his balls feel tighter. “Johnny,” he growled out in low warning, but the other man merely pushed the heels of his feet harder against his back, arching himself up even more so Ghost was so deep inside him they both saw stars.
“Cum f’me Si, breed me so good, wan’ tae carry yer wee bairns,” Soap could hardly register what he was saying, only knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was Ghost’s thick load inside him.
“Oh fuck—yeah tha’s it, take it all, love” Ghost bent down so his words were rasped right next to Soap’s ear, his cock twitched once, twice, before he was spilling his release inside him, groaning a low sound that had Soap’s own dick cumming on both their stomachs with a curse that was swallowed by Ghost’s mouth suddenly on his.
They lay together panting once everything was cleaned up, Soap’s head resting on Ghost’s stomach as their legs were tangled together like they couldn’t bear to be apart.
“Johnny?” Ghost’s voice came in a low purr, the tone he only got when he was about to be slightly mocking. “You know I was wearin’ a rubber, right?”
“Aye,” came the affirmative, voice still tired but now slightly wary of where this was going.
“And you know I came in your arse?”
“Aye, I ken tha’ too,” Soap’s head lifted then, eyes narrowed as Ghost continued.
“And you know you’ve got a dick, can’t get pregnant, right?”
“Alright, ye big jabbering oaf, what’re ye gettin’ oan aboot now?” His accent seemed to thicken between the tiredness and the half-way to outrage he was in now, which only caused Ghost to snicker.
“Well, if you know all that then why were you begging me to breed you, hm?” His voice was playfully mocking, eyes meeting Soap’s with a glint of amusement in them as he watched the Scot’s face start to flame up.
“Ack, away wit’ ye, ye big cunt!” His words were almost drowned out by the booming laughter that came from his pitiful outburst, the big arms around him holding him tighter despite his protests. And though Ghost was laughing now they both knew it was Soap’s words that got him to cum so fast.
Cock cage- late Kinktober update~ sub!König x dom!afab reader. (nsfw)
I needed this to be finished, so it is not proofread, we die like Soap.
(also: I’m starting to realize I say it’s not proofread a lot.. I might need to start doing that)
“Ah, liebchen, please,” his begging sounds so sweet when whispered into your ear. “It is too much, I need you now.” His hands find their way to your hips, to others a simple way to stand behind you and hold you, but the slight tremble in his hands tells you otherwise. He is breaking, and you are loving it.
…
Just that morning you had looked up at him with those big eyes of yours, doing your best impression of a little puppy, and pleaded with him to let you put his cock in a cage. And whether it was because he himself found it to be a newfound a turn on, or whether it was his desire to give you whatever you asked, you would never know. Either way, König found himself lying on the bed, pants down around his ankles and squirming under your hands. You see, the only way to get a cock cage on is for the man to be soft, but one look at your eager face to put said cage on him had König chubbing up right away. Thank goodness you were so resourceful and were able to get it on him after only one orgasm that left him reeling. He needed help after to even put his pants on, his poor cock trying so hard (pun intended) to stiffen up in his cage, but couldn’t, despite how incredibly horny he was for you right then, and for the remainder of the day.
The way you looked at him as he went about his normal daily activities had him nearly salivating. You knew he was enjoying what he had waiting for you under his pants, knew it in the way he squirmed under your gaze, in the way he had to stifle a low groan when your hand brushed the front of his trousers when you passed him, feeling the hardness of the metal under your fingers. The intention was to have him wear it all day, so by the end of it he was desperate and wanting for you, the way you liked it best. However, by the time lunch came around and you were busying yourself with the kettle to brew his favourite tea (you weren’t entirely cruel to the man after all), he had come up behind you, begging, pleading with you to let him out of the sweet sweet torture he was in.
“It is too much, I need you now,” his hands tighten where they rest on your hips, head ducked to be able to whisper into your ear through the hood he always donned.
“Oh darling,” you drawl in that tone he knows means you are loving how desperate he is for you, “here I thought you were going to be good for me and last the whole day,”
“I am trying meine liebchen, but it is not easy,” his voice has that breathy edge to it you rarely hear, only in times he gets like this, slipping into his submissive state.
You can feel his breath stutter when you turn around in his hold, facing him and putting your hands over his forearms, thumb just barely moving over the bands of muscle there under the long sleeved shirt he wore. With how tall he is your neck strains to even meet his eyes, but the sweet man he is, no matter how much he was affected at the moment, bends down lower, ducking his head to ease the strain on your neck. If he wasn’t wearing the hood he always did, you would be able to see the blush that covers his cheeks all the way to his chest when you smile innocently up at him, hands moving upwards to rest your wrists over his shoulders.
“If you’re truly so desperate for me as you say you are,” you keep your voice in a low enough tone that only he can hear your words as you speak, “then you would say the words you know I’m waiting to hear.”
The way his eyes close as you finished your sentence gives away the inner turmoil within him to outlast the day, warring with the desire to say hell with it and beg for your affection. It would seem the latter wins out when he presses his forehead to yours, words coming out in hardly above a whisper.
“Please, Mama, do not make me wait any longer. I need your touch, I need it more than anything. I have been so good for you,” his voice seems to peter out towards the end, especially when you grip the back of his neck with your hand, scruffing him in the way you know gets him even further into that hazy mind space. He lets you lead him like that towards your quarters, pausing in empty halls to kiss him senseless, leaving him breathless and dazed by the time you close and lock the door behind you both.
Within moments, you have him laid out beneath you, utterly naked on the bed. Your hands roam over the patchwork of scars over his muscled chest as he squirms each time your fingertips brush or pinch his sensitive nipples. You stop his hands each time they attempt to reach for you, making it abundantly clear that if he wanted the key to the cage keeping his cock soft and locked up, which is kept securely on a chain between your breasts, that he would need to be good and let you use him.
“König, darling, you’ll have to earn this key if you want to cum today,” you practically purr into his ear when his hands find their way to your thighs again where you’re straddling his hips.
His whole body gives a shutter as you run your fingers over the metal of his cage, barely brushing the delicate skin of his cock trapped beneath. “Ah—please liebchen, I will do anything, anything you ask of me” his voice is strained as he speaks, face, finally uncovered now, flushed heavily as his eyes struggle to even stay open.
“Alright, love, since you asked so nicely…” your smirk is downright devious as you move up his body so your thighs now straddle his face, his eyes now wide and looking up at you, pupils blown so there is only a ring of blue visible. “Make me cum first, then we’ll see about getting your poor cock free. I bet you’re just desperate to cum, aren’t you? So tense I wonder if you’ll even last one minute before blowing your load.”
The slight degradation seems to set him off, his mouth surging up to latch onto your dripping cunt, tongue working over your clit, dragging a slow line upwards before circling it with clear skill that belies how needy he is for you. His eagerness catches you off guard no matter how many times you do this with him, causing your hand to grip the headboard to keep you up, the other hand tangling in his hair as you fight the urge to grind your hips back against his face when his tongue teases over your entrance.
It doesn’t take long for him to have you cumming on his touch, drenching the lower half of his face as moans spill out of your mouth in an incoherent version of his name. He brings you through your orgasm, slowing the movements of his tongue to bring you down from your high nice and easy. His large hands help to guide you to straddle his waist again, resting on his abdomen. Despite the surety and strength of his movements, his eyes are still blown wide, breathing somehow more ragged than your own and making you move with each sharp inhale he takes.
“Shatz, please, I cannot take much more” he pleads with you, licking the remnants of your cum off his face, struggling to maintain eye contact as his gaze roams over your body, feeling like a phantom touch with how intense it is.
You take pity on him, and how can you not when he looks so wrecked for you already? You’d recovered enough from your orgasm to scoot down his body, straddling one of his thick thighs now as you cup his cock over the metal surrounding it, smirking as he instinctively bucks up into your hand, whining your name repeatedly as you continue to tease him, touching the skin around the cage, even finding the places your fingers can reach through and touching his cock until tears spill from his eyes, hands fisted in the wrinkled sheets, damp already from sweat.
By the time you even get around to taking the key from around your neck he is squirming from each brush of your skin on his. The sound of the key fitting into the small lock on the side sounded loud even over his panting, but it seems the promise of being touched was too much for your poor boy, and he experienced his first dry orgasm, hips bucking and head falling to the mattress as German words spill from his tongue, tears mingling with sweat as they land on the sheets. His whines and whimpers are music to your ears as you slip the cage off his sensitive dick, twitching and hardening the moment the cage is off.
“Shatz, it is—ah— too much. I cannot…” he pants as he speaks, his head falling to the side as he collects himself when you wrap your hand around him, earning a low moan. “I cannot take much more of this.” His accent thickens the more desperate he becomes, becoming more unintelligible as they meld with his moans.
Your hand slides up and down his cock, spreading the precum that beads at his tip over his length, twisting your hand just right with each upward motion. His thighs tremble beneath you, his cries so loud you may have some apologizing to do tomorrow, but at the moment you couldn’t care less when the sounds leaving his mouth spur you on even more, especially when your other hand comes down to fondle his heavy balls that you feel contract.
“Shatz—Shatz, I am close. Please, please I-” his words cut off with a toe curling whine when you take the head of his cock into your mouth and suck once, twice, until he spills spurt after spurt of his cum into your mouth, your hand keeping the rhythm you’d found, working him through his intense pleasure. You let his cum flow out of your mouth and over his cock, using it to pump a little faster, sending him into overstimulation quickly, leaving him gasping and twitching under you. Babbling nonsensically when his cock gives another weak twitch, a few spurts of cum escape him as he cums for a second time almost too quickly, so sensitive you give him reprieve when he whines he can’t take any more.
After wiping your hand off in the bedsheets, they’d need to be changed anyway, you move to sit beside him in the bed, your hand coming up to cup his cheek and coo at him how well he did, how good he was for you. You kiss his forehead and hand him a bottle of water from the bedside table, letting him lay his head in your lap. After a few minutes of your soothing words and touches he gives a weak but satisfied smile to you, and you return it with your own.
“You did so well for me darling, did that feel good?” You ask as you wipe his sweat-damp hair from his forehead.
“Yes, I do not remember a time I felt such pleasure.” His voice is hoarse from all his moaning before, but you smile anyway before leaving for just a moment and returning with a damp cloth, helping wipe both of you up before changing the sheets with his assistance, as much as he could at least.
You watch as he falls asleep in your arms, not yet even dinner time, but he deserved the rest. Pressing a kiss to his forehead has him pulling you closer in his slumber, and for such a large man, he seems so small in this moment. Smiling to yourself, you rest your head on the pillow beside his, and as you drifted off with him you couldn’t help but feel a warmth in your gut that you knew was more than just the afterglow. He rested in your heart just as surely as he slept in your arms, and you felt no need for him to ever leave.
I’m not sure how I feel about this one, it’s been sitting in my drafts for a while, just waiting for me to touch up a few things, but I just need to post it. And to the anon who requested this: I’m so sorry this is late, I truly hope you like it anyway!
Spooky season is over but my brain is a little slow on the uptake. Cw: mentions of child abuse and alcoholism, allusions to rape (not explicitly mentioned). If I missed something please tell me.
Many years ago there lived a man, tall and broad shouldered, who brought in the timbers from the forest, hauling day in and day out the fallen logs through the dense thicket, a job few were desperate enough to do. Like all jobs, it took a toll on a person. Being the woodsman was strenuous work, and tedious at that, draining the body and mind alike. And eventually, that toll became too great for the man to carry, and his once seldom seen cabin became the only walls he saw. This man became bitter at the world, and bitterness turned him to drinking, and drinking turned to violence. A sort of violence that bore him a child.
The child became the centre of this man’s world, and that was a very bad thing. The young boy was beaten and bruised for having the audacity to live, forced to care for the man who did not care for him. The boy became thin and gaunt, pale as the winters snow, so pale, some may think him to be a ghost. He learned only violence from the man meant to nourish his youth, and the young boy grew into a broken man. A broken man whose only legacy was an old woodsman who died as he lived; drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle.
Further from the forest lay a village, one with no name, too small for any map. But it held families, children, and lovers, young and old. And eventually, those ones who are old pass on, their families grieve, and soon comes the time to lay them to rest. The families and loved ones gather on the large hill on the outskirts of the town, where they meet the gravedigger.
To many, an undesirable career, but it guaranteed work. After all, everyone dies at some time. Long hours in the cemetery atop a that hill made the gravedigger into a strong man, sturdy and capable. The hill he worked on was barren, save for the gravestones that litter the pale grass. Some graves were marked only by wood, from the families too poor to even afford a stone. But the man treated each with the same care, whether he be lowering a gold-plated casket or a timber one.
Two men, worlds apart, collided with one another on one fateful day. A candle, some say, started the fire in that small cabin one night, others say it was a strike of lightning, though the shy was clear. Whatever the reason, that small cabin burned to the ground, and with it the broken man. With no family remaining of his own, it was by the kindness of neighbours that his body was brought to the cemetery, lowered by the gravedigger into a hole dug six feet even, and marked with a simple wooden pallet which read: ‘Here lies Simon Riley, may his rest be more peaceful than his life’. The gravedigger thought nothing of this man apart from a moment of silence for a life lost that had so clearly never been truly lived. But nothing more, nothing more remarkable about him than any other he’d buried.
But it is often the unremarkable that become the ones we remember most. Legend has it that when the fire consumes a body in the dead of night, it burns too bright for even the reaper to enter, and so that soul remains linked to the body without the scythe of the reaper to sever the connection. Some say this is why there are spirits that linger to roam the earth when the sun disappears beyond the horizon. And that night after Simon Riley was buried, could one such phantom be seen. A flash of light, perhaps, a trick of the mists when the mind swirls in the depths of the evening. But the gravedigger insists he knew what he saw, because never before in his life had John MacTavish seen a Ghost.
I’m wasn’t entirely sure what this is, or where it was going, but I just kept writing and here it is. I have more ideas, I might expand when I’m not so tired, so for now enjoy whatever this is in all its unedited glory.
gargoyle ghost who guards the cathedral near where Soap lives. He’s really old though, and has been “asleep” in his gargoyle form for a long while. Normal gargoyle stuff: can’t move once the sun is up no matter where he is or what position he’s in (do you see where I’m going with this?) he also can’t be outside of the cathedral grounds when the sun comes up or he’ll remain a gargoyle forever.
So I’m thinking he’s been at this cathedral for centuries, though wars and all that, and during one of the battles got damaged, so even in his human form (flesh form?) he’s missing some of his face.
And then Soap meets him and stuff happens and they fall in love and have hot cathedral balcony sex.
cw: depiction of a panic attack, ooc Simon? I don’t know but he’s a big softie in this one. Hurt/comfort.
It was safe to say the date with him was better than anything you’d ever had in the past. He was kind, if a bit gruff, but you liked that about him. He didn’t sugarcoat things, but he wasn’t a jerk about it either. You spoke a lot of the time, but in the times you got silent he would share something, be it a story of his many adventures in civilian grocery shopping, or some corny joke you couldn’t help but laugh at. By the end of the night you were practically floating, telling him how no, tomorrow was not too soon for another date, and yes, that new coffee place sounds perfect. You can’t wait either, you hopes he has a good night too. And back home next door if you didn’t hum your way through your nightly routine, you weren’t sure who did, because you were the only one there.
The next day at the coffee shop went just as well, he picked you up at your door, insisting despite living only the next wall over it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and you walked together to the shop. It was closed, of course, neither of you had bothered to check if it was open on Mondays, which it was apparently not, but when he suggested just talking a walk instead, who were you to deny him. He did everything right without a thought of praise, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, opening the door when you two decided to pop into the aquarium you’d never been to, and when he insisted on paying for the ice cream you both got, despite it being entirely the wrong option for the overcast morning, he didn’t say because it was the polite thing to do, instead ‘I’ve got money, love, let me use it olright?’. He was too sweet, he even gave you his jacket when it started pouring down rain on your way back to the townhouse, something about him running hot anyway.
It wasn’t until the third date, in which you both actually made it to the coffee shop this time, that he kissed you goodbye at your front door, and even that was just on the corner of the mouth. Some might have said he was taking things a little slow, but you thought it was perfect. You were running off that high for a long while, but all things are due to come to an end at some point. It was the evening the dishwasher broke. You hardly used it anyway, preferring to wash the dishes by hand when you weren’t cooking something, but it made such a mess. Water was everywhere, your favourite mug was chipped from when you almost slipped in the puddle and it caught on the edge of the counter, and now you had a bruise on your hip from the aftermath of that slip, where you backed right into the fridge.
You’d been feeling pretty tired already from all the going out, even if you loved it, but it was still exhausting. And this was just the straw on the camels back, and just like that camel, you broke. You were aware you were making a mess of yourself in that floaty out of body way, but you couldn’t really bring yourself to care in the moment. All you knew was your chest was aching with how hard it was clenched, your jaw was so tight it felt like it may snap from how hard you were holding it open in a silent scream sort of way, and your eyes were starting to feel like someone was pushing on them from in front and behind all at the same time. At some point you had gotten on your knees, your temple pressed against the cabinet door decide you as the dishwasher wetted the floor like it was crying alongside you. You felt your body start to shake, those tremors sneaking up on you as your abdomen seized up, causing you to jerk, which only added to the fright portion of this impromptu panic attack. You’d never seen the exorcist, but you were pretty sure this was about the same, awfulness-wise.
Then came the difficulty to breathe, your throat hot and feeling puffy, aching in a way that only came with how hard you’d been silently wailing, tears and snot dripping from your face to the already soaked floor as you gasped out whispered pleas of ‘I can’t do this’, ‘make it stop’, ‘please, please, please, stop’. Your ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton that was somehow also ringing, so much so you didn’t hear the knock on the door and that familiar baritone voice asking ‘Heard a noise, love, my water pipe burst, thought yours migh’ ‘ave too. Love? You olright in there?’
Oh no, he sounded worried. You don’t want him worried, yeah that’s right, go on, get yourself up. No, the door is that way, that’s right, try the deadbolt first, there you go. With all that running through your head you forgot exactly what state you were in, eyes still blurry with tears as you opened the door, pajama pants damp from the dishwasher’s overflow of water, yet somehow you managed to croak out a ‘Hi Simon’, though it wasn’t entirely intelligible.
“Love, what’s goin’ on? No, come ‘ere.” Without much grace or warning, he pulled you into his arms before your legs could give out again, and if you weren’t in such a state as you were, you could have appreciated the way his strong arms wrapped around you, the feeling of his hard abdomen muscles softened by the layer of pudge that would feel just perfect for laying your head on. As it was, all you could do was begin sobbing again about your floor being a mess and your mug being chipped. He listened to it all, keeping you upright the whole way through your blubbering, only reminding you in a low rumble that soothed your trembling to breathe for him, nice and slow, there ya go.
You weren’t entirely sure how you ended up on your couch with a blanket laid out beside you in reach should you want it, and a cup of water in your hands, but you were sure that someone was in your kitchen, and that someone was doing a thorough job of getting rid of the dishwasher’s own tantrum. After the short trek to the kitchen, you found said person out to be Simon himself, on his hands and knees, fighting with the dishwasher to get it to stop leaking, which somehow it did.
“Simon?” Even to yourself your voice sounded shaky, wrecked from your sobbing. “What’re you doing?”
“Jus’ a little maintenance, sweetheart, got it all cleared up for ya” he wiped his hands on his pants as he stood, making a little grunting noise that stood testament to his long years in the service as he did. “Feelin’ any better now?”
His concern should have caught you off guard, the last man to see you have a panic attack told you to grow a pair, which wasn’t exactly the most comforting thing to say, but your anger had helped stop your attack. But with Simon it felt different, he didn’t bug you about it, didn’t ask what was wrong, oh how you hated when people did that, he was just there, and that was enough.
“Yeah, bit better, thanks,” you didn’t bother for a smile, you knew he’d see right through it anyway, but you could meet his eyes, and that told him enough.
“Good, need anything else while I’m ’ere?” He was already looking around like he could spot something to be done.
“No, thank you, you’ve done more than enough already,” you truly did appreciate what he’d done to help you, and you were sure he could see that, especially as he just nodded, satisfied with your answer.
“If you need anythin’ else, you just ask, don’t matter what time it is” and he said it with such finality you couldn’t help but nod, feeling something in your chest tighten. “Was thinking about that coffee place we went to, was gonna go back tomorrow. Fancy coming with?” That thing in your chest expanded, and you realized what it was once you had walked with him to your door, agreeing on a time to meet (of course you said yes, how could you not?). Turning the deadbolt again after receiving a kiss to the temple, right where you’d been leaning on not that long ago, had that warmth in your chest pulse, that feeling you knew but had forgotten about. It was nice, you thought, to care again.
it’s officially a series! Next time we explore readers job, what mysteries lie in the world of the working class?
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