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@your-highnessmarvel
Your Highness’s Masterlist - updated 15/11/2023
BANNER MADE BY @emegeek
💚WELCOME TO THE MADNESS 💚
Multi-part fanfictions:
METICULOUS MASTERLIST (Bucky Barnes x OFC) soft!dark!bucky, NSFW ~ in progress
LEMONADE MASTERLIST (Chris Evans x OFC) NSFW ~ incomplete
GATE KEEPER MASTERLIST (Tom Hiddleston x reader) NSFW ~ COMPLETE
CALIFORNIA MASTERLIST (Loki x oc) NSFW ~ incomplete
FROM BLEAK TO BRIGHT MASTERLIST (Loki x reader) ~ COMPLETE
COTTON CANDY (CALL OF DUTY) (Simon Riley x ofc) NSFW ~ in progress
Imagines/Oneshots: Click on the links to open individual masterlists
Steve Rogers/Captain America
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Amaze me (Peter Quill x reader) just some fluffy star lord
James “Bucky” Barnes
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Lady Thor (Thor x reader) Fluff where you pick up a pretty famous hammer with as much ease as your boyfriend.
** Robert Downey Jr **
Mundane (Robert Downey Jr. x reader) RDJ meets a non-Hollywood woman for whom he feels a strange attraction to.
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I got a dog a few weeks ago, very sweet grey black Irish wolfhound she's very sweet but with the new season out for daredevil I can't stop thinking about Frank Castle!
Had the hilarious thought of him getting grumpy that reader didn't tell them they got a dog, and grumpy like the sandwich scene where he's just appauled at the audacity cause hasn't he made it clear enough he loves dogs?? Even better if he sneaks into readers apartment at 3am and is just surprised by a very polite but big Irish Wolfhound and just confronts reader even after just waking up like:
"When did you get her?" He says while sad doggo is leaning against him for pets.
oh my gosh and reader would just shrug cause it’s not that big of a deal, Frank, and get back to bed. She’d listen to Frank all night, unable to sleep because he’s cooing and giggling with the big doggo, telling him “Oh that’s a nice boy, yeah yeah, you like those scratches boy?”
And then he’d beg to bring it out for a walk in the morning to play catch with it and by the time reader’s two boys are back from their walk, that’s Frank’s dog now
just came across this picture... somebody sedate me i'm so serious
just this once | f.castle
PART THREE
Pairing: Frank Castle x OFC
Warnings: language, blood, death, stalking, smut (f!receiving)
Chapter Summary: There's just no world where this would happen just once. Even if he keeps telling himself that. Even if he takes a step back. She's his...And he's hers.
A/N: Ya'll asked, and I shall obey
Masterlist
He follows her home.
Just this once, he keeps telling himself. Just this once, to make sure that no one, really no one, has found her. That she won't be targeted because of his dumb mistakes.
It begins with once, just to scratch an itch that he felt one night. After she rode his thigh like a good girl, after she writhed and moaned against him, like he wanted. But then he devolved, as he always did, and once became another time some other night, and then became every two nights--to every night.
Kaya the Almost Nurse was a little entrepreneur. He didn't know why that kind of surprised him, raised a few prideful breaths in his lungs. She owned and managed a tiny coffee shop/bookstore called "Lattes & Litt", and she often closed up shop around 7 p.m.
She always took the roads when it wasn't raining. If it was, she took the 45th bus down the block and ran the rest of the way to her apartment.
But tonight was a warm night. Summer was brewing on this type of wind. She was wearing a pair of low rise jeans and a red t-shirt, leaving a slit of bare skin just below her belly button. Frank watched her, exiting the cafe and locking up with a look over her shoulder. He hated that she didn't feel safe in this city, hated that she even had to think--or had the instinct--to check and make sure she was safe.
She scooted a bag onto her shoulder and started down her usual path, Frank crossing the street, walking a ways off. In the distance. He supposed it was he who she was looking for before, that quick snap over her shoulder. A stranger lurking not far beyond.
And it became apparent, very quickly, that it wasn't just Frank following her.
He wasn't being very subtle. At first, Frank thought he was just on the same route, but there was no coincidences after they both, or well, all three, turned on the same street.
The rage that slid into Frank's gut was like pulling on a pair of old gloves; familiar. The right fit.
He doubled his pace, getting real nice and close to this stranger following his Kaya. His.
When he grabbed the stranger, he made a yelping noise, a coward's noise.
Frank saw Kaya turn, surprised, scared, backing away from the two shadows colliding. Frank changed his grip, bunching the stranger's collar in his fist and bringing him close. "Why you followin' her, huh?" he growled, the grit in his voice like gravel.
The stranger put his hands up, revealing a lump in his right pocket. Frank tugged, grabbed onto something spindly, and pulled out a long line of rope.
With a grunt, he balled his other fist and sent it knocking against the stranger's mouth. The sound of teeth hitting the cement, like tic-tacks in a bottle.
"Frank!" It was Kaya, but the rage that filled him, that clouded his vision red, kept him in a noose, focused on the stranger that had fucking rope in his coat.
He lay on the ground, knees pointed to the sky when Frank bent over him and grabbed him by the scruff of his hair, landing one, two, three punches to his jaw, his nose, his mouth. The force behind those hits rattled through Frank's knuckles, up his arm, into his elbow, and provided more and more fuel to amplify his rage.
Then he put both hands against his jaw, crouching at his level, and snapped his head left, hearing the telltale sound of his spine severing.
His body fell limp on the cement, the streetlight lighting his blood a dark red color.
When Frank stood, breathless, he looked for Kaya. She stood in the darkness of the street, hands over her mouth, eyes wide and glassy. Fear. Finally fear.
He took one step and she took one back, her eyes monitoring his every move.
He took one step and she whined, a different sound, more like a plea. He watched as her eyes filled with tears, glistening, twinkling in the light of the streetlamps.
It didn't take long for him to reach her. Slide a hand against her jaw, pull her hands away from her mouth. She didn't say anything when he bent down to kiss her, when the sound he made was more of a growl than a grunt as he pried her lips apart to lick his tongue against hers. She didn't move or flinch or utter a word when he grabbed a handful of her ass, a painful grip, as he backed her into the brick wall of her apartment building.
She just breathed him in, the smell of him like copper and caramel. She just let him kiss her, grunt against her mouth when he took a handful of her tit.
"No bra," he grumbled against her mouth, pushing her harshly into the wall.
He kissed her mouth. His mouth. Slid his hands into her dark hair. His hair. Glided his fingertips down her neck. To her tits, grabbing them roughly. His.
"Mine, Kaya," he mumbled against her mouth, almost as an excuse for the dead body behind him. "Mine."
She didn't protest. Kept still, letting Frank fill his aching soul with her.
"We have to go," he said, kissing her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. "Now."
Her mouth buzzed, ached, as he dragged her back to her apartment, up the stairs to the second floor, and into her hallway. Her keys rattled in her hands when she unlocked her door, letting the big shadow behind her pass through the threshold.
He pointed at the lock when she closed the door. "I'll get you a new one," he said, as if that was the sole reason why that asshole had followed her home.
She didn't say anything, just stood there, silently.
"I should...go," he grumbled, shifting from foot to foot. The surging wave of hunger in him had died, replaced by a slow tide of shame.
Teeth clenched, she nodded.
He opened his mouth to say something, then grunted, choosing against it. "The police is gonna come," he continued, looking at her intently. "You can't...you can't say anything. Not about me."
She hugged herself. Nodded. Silent.
He nodded once, grunted with the movement, and then he was gone.
The handprints he'd left on her body burned deep on her flesh as she stood there. Finger-shaped aches on her tits, her neck, her ass--flesh of her lips throbbing from his kisses.
**
She liked the way his fingers left thumb-shaped bruises on her tits. And she wanted those to stay--because he hadn't.
Every day that passed, the bruises wanted to fade, but she kept sadistically pressing into them until pain bloomed and the purple deepened. But then they did fade to yellow, to some odd snot green color, and when they stopped aching, she felt defeated--deflated like an old balloon.
The police came. Of course. She acted innocent. Eyebrows shot up, hand to her parted lips in shock. "He died?" she asked, and watched the police officer nod solemnly. "No no, I was here all night." Watched as the officer took notes. "I didn't hear a thing, I'm so sorry."
The body was gone by that morning and when her bruises had faded back to her skin color, she'd almost forgotten she'd seen a man die.
How brutal death was. A snap of his neck. A severed vertebrae and the life was sucked out of his body.
She wanted to reach out to Frank, but she didn't know how. He always came to her, and never the other way around. So she hung out on her fire escape more than usual, and now that summer had fully taken hold of New York in a sweaty, humid grip--spending her nights outside became almost therapeutic.
Midnight came that night and so did Frank. Ugly, red bruises on his cheekbones, faded yellow ones right under his left eye. Old cuts with bloody crusts on his forehead. He stood on her fire escape, facing her.
She couldn't see any visible or new wounds. He wasn't favoring one side or limping or casually bleeding out on her wooden floorboards.
"Kaya." He said her name full of grit, a deep rasp that filled her skin with goosebumps.
He held a white shopping bag, which contrasted so weirdly with the black loose trousers, black combat boots, and the grey long-sleeve. It looked so...normal. Frank doing his shopping.
She pointed at the bag. "What you got there?" She pulled her legs to her chest. "A head?"
He laughed through his nose. "Nah," he answered, a smile tugging at his mouth. "It's a new lock."
A frown built on her forehead. "You're bringing me a new lock?"
"I said I'd change it."
She shrugged. "Didn't think you meant it."
It was his turn to frown. "Why?" He shifted on his other foot.
"Well." She licked her lips. "You kinda disappeared."
He nodded, bending his neck to look at his hands. "Yeah." Then he raised his eyes to hers, maintaining the contact as he approached, crouching before her as she sat on the ledge of her window. "I couldn't come back here until the police had stopped investigating that son of a bitch's death. And then I had some shit to do."
She brushed a thumb against the angry crimson bruise on the swell of his cheekbone. Frank closed his eyes, the tenderness of her touch reaching deep in his chest.
"This?" she whispered.
He nodded.
"Why?"
He sighed, leaning into her touch. "I'm ridding the city of filth like that fuckin' asshole who thought he could have you." Anger raised in him slowly, but she kept her palm against his jaw. "I'm putting the killers, the rapists, the pedophiles in the ground, where they fuckin' belong, Kaya." His voice had turned deep, rough, like gravel.
"I didn't ask what," she mumbled. "I asked why."
He shook his head, a warm hand reaching out to press on her bare knee. He brought her legs down, spread them, and sat there, his head against her bare thigh.
"'Cause this world is corrupted, baby," he mumbled, inhaling her skin. Honey. "Because I saw that guy and I knew what he was thinkin', what he was goin' to do to you, and everything in me wanted to protect you." Still not really what she'd asked, but close.
"He didn't hurt me," she answered, pressing hesitant fingers onto his hair--shorn on the sides, longer on top. She wondered, absentminded, who gave him those haircuts. "He didn't even touch me."
He breathed in deeply, frustrated. "If I could kill him again, I would."
They stayed that way for a second, him crouched between her knees, side of his face pressed against the plush, soft skin of her thigh. Her, petting his hair, listening to his breathing.
Then he got up, wiggling the bag like it was the answer to everything, and they climbed back into her room.
She stood in the living room, leaning against the burnt orange couch Frank had stopped sleeping on. Frank worked quickly on the lock, expertly changing it like he'd done this a time or two before.
Having a handy, big tough man in her home raised something...feminine in her. Something she has a bit ashamed to admit, that she wanted to thank him, to take care of him. So she started boiling water, prepped some coffee, then put her knife to a few apples and spread some almond butter on them.
When Frank gallivanted into her little kitchen, she was presenting him with a cup of coffee and "Desert," she said.
He smiled, laughed, crinkling the skin at the corner of his eyes. It was the first genuine laugh he'd given her.
She watched him eat all the apples and swallow down his coffee. She'd barely taken a sip when he reached over and hugged her, engulfing her in his scent, his warmth. Her cheek pressed against his hard chest, the same chest she'd seen bare a few weeks ago.
The memory burned on her cheeks.
His hands slid onto her cheeks, pulling her head back, leaning in to give her a soft, chaste kiss. She didn't want that.
She wanted more. More of what he'd given her. She, ashamed albeit, wanted what he'd given her when he'd killed her stalker. She wanted him to grab her again, leave his markings on her, own her like she was his. Because she was.
She raised slowly on her tiptoes, pressing into him, searching for more. Her hands rested on his chest, fisting in his shirt.
A grunt from him.
"What you doin' there, baby?" he mumbled against her mouth.
Ashamed, she pulled back, putting a foot of distance between them, her head down, looking at her toes.
"Hey hey hey," he cooed, reaching for her face. He felt how warm her cheeks were and he smiled slowly. "You wanna kiss me, Kaya?"
She nodded, frowning.
"You want more from me, Kaya, please, take it."
Something gooey, like hot, melted honey, dripped into her stomach, coiling into her core. When she looked at him, his eyes were upturned, begging.
He shook his head. "Whatever you need from me, Kaya, I'll give it to you."
How could she ask for him to press finger-shaped bruises into her hips, to make her cum so easily like he had in her bathroom all those weeks ago? How could she, without feeling so ashamed, so...so un-feminist?
He was a killer. He was a murderer. He'd stalked her as bad as that asshole had, she knew it. So why did she want to see what it would feel like to have him, fully have him?
He put his hands around her waist, propping her up on the counter so easily, like she weighed nothing to him. His knuckles skimmed her knees, spreading them to fit his hips between them.
"You tell me when to stop, yeah?" he whispered, pressing his mouth against her ear. Kissing down her jaw, pressing his thumb to his chin to tilt her head back so he could kiss along the column of her jaw. "I won't ask what you want," he continued, his voice heavy. "I'll just take. Yeah, baby? And you tell me if I'm taking too much."
She shivered against his touch, against the indexes he hooked in the waistband of her shorts. Shivered against the feel of the fabric sliding down her bare thighs, the same skin littered with gooseflesh.
Hands skimmed back up her skin, on the inside of her thighs, and he pushed against them, spread them even further. A deep red blush crept up her cheeks, and Frank pressed his thumb against her chin, bringing it back down.
"Hey hey, there sweetheart," he murmured, kissing her mouth. "Look how beautiful you are, huh?" He kneaded her thighs, pressing his thumbs into the soft flesh. "Look at this pretty purple panties you got on. You did this f' me?"
She didn't answer, searching his mouth again. He obliged her, kissed her deeply.
"Lie back, for me, baby," he ordered softly against her mouth.
Her heart sped up, filling her belly with hot, bubbling nerves. But she obliged, watching him watching her as she slowly leaned back. Her spine met the length of her countertop.
She felt him bend down. Her cheeks heated when she realized he was eye-to-eye with her cunt.
He placed her feet on his shoulders, and her toes curled automatically.
"Look at that," he muttered, probably seeing the wet spot on her purple panties. "I ain't even touch you yet, princess."
She couldn't answer. What would she tell him? That just the thought of him had her sticky with want? Just imagining him in her apartment again had her squirming in her jeans?
"Up," he commanded, and she lifted her hips, letting him slide her humid panties down her thighs, hooked to one ankle like some display. "Good God, woman," he sighed, pressing hard kisses to the inside of her thigh.
She whined when he spread her thighs open. When he just stared, breathed against her.
"Look at that perfect little hole," he mumbled to himself. "So wet."
He slowly leaned in, kissed her throbbing clit, watched her spine arch off the counter.
"This what you want, sweetheart?" he asked, replacing his mouth with his thumb, rubbing slow circles.
She nodded, breathless, hands pressed to her chest, rubbing her nipples over her shirt.
"Answer me," he ordered.
She breathed in, pressing her hips into the pressure of his thumb.
"Answer me," he asked again, harder this time.
"Yes, Frank, yes it is," she breathed, sighing when he licked up her folds.
She shuddered against him, a roil of pleasure coiling against her spine.
He licked her once, twice, until he settled the flat of his tongue on her clit and sucked.
She gasped, arching off the counter, hips rocking against his mouth, against the moan he let slip past his own lips. He settled into a slow, painful rhythm with his tongue, flicking and sucking on her until she was writhing, her fingers pressed against his skull, trying to pull him harder against her, but he wouldn't oblige.
He pulled back slowly, and she felt the cold air licking her.
He slowly inched his middle finger in her, watching as her hole sucked it in. "You like that, yeah?"
A whimper answered him and he slid his finger in deeper, pressing his mouth to her clit quickly. The added pressure of his tongue and his finger in her made a languid moan escape her, forcing her hips to follow a rhythm of their own, rocking against his mouth.
Pulling back, he ordered, "pinch your nipples for me, baby."
Cheeks red, she obeyed. Pinching them over her shirt, rolling them in between her index and thumb.
"Fuck," she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut.
He continued licking on her, fucking a second finger into her wet hole, waching her hips move against his tongue with a rough, quick pace.
He was impossibly hard in his pants, his own blood flooded into the tip of his cock, and every whine, every moan she graced his ears with, he forced himself not to stand. Not to unzip his trousers and fuck his dick into her.
He noticed how snug, how tight she was around his two digits, and he groaned against her cunt.
His rhythm accelerated. He wanted to taste her cum. God knows just her arousal had his tastebuds buzzing.
Combining his fingers with his tongue, he went to work, focused on her moans, gauging his pressure. He learned to play her body like a harp, pressing more and more harshly against her clit with his tongue, fucking his fingers in her wet cunt faster and faster.
Until her hips were rocking against his tongue on their own, her fingers pressed against the back of his skull. He groaned, eyes closed, reeling in the scent and smell of her.
She came with his name on her lips, hips stuttering on his tongue, lifting pride in his chest like a white wave. She taste just as sweet, gushing against his mouth.
She was boneless when he lifted her off the countertop, eyes closed, completely at his mercy. He lay her down on the floor of her kitchen, under the dim yellow lights on the ceiling.
"Don't move," he said, voice raspy, rough, deep, as he unbuttoned his pants and took himself in his hand.
He was hard and warm in his fist, the spit he added to it seeming to make him even warmer. He looked at her, thighs spread, pussy wet with his saliva and her want, her chest rising and falling with every shallow breath she took.
He fucked his fist quickly, the bloody rushing down, down, down. Her eyes closed. Her nipples hard. Her skin glistening, soft, so feminine. Her cheeks red. And she'd cummed. Cummed because of him.
He spent his hot seed on her stomach in record time, groaning with each pump of his fist against his cock. Even the sight of his cum on her belly button had his head filling with nasty, dirty thoughts.
He lay over her, supported on his elbows as not to crush her.
When she came to, she was emotionless. His thumb slid on her jaw, pulling her eyes to his.
"Okay?"
She nodded, smiled faintly, sleepily.
He zipped himself up. Grabbed a towel and wiped his spent off of her, even though he wanted to leave it there. Let any man know that she was his.
There was no going back after this. No leaving her again. He'd officially claimed her as his, marked her as his.
He lifted her in his arms, bringing her head to his chest. Walked her to her bed and settled her into her own pink sheets. She watched him with wide, glassy eyes as he took his shift off, his black trousers, his boots, leaving him in his boxers.
He got in beside her, in those girly pink sheets, in the smell of her that engulfed him. Pulling her close to him, rounding her spine against his chest, he inhaled her hair.
"Go to sleep, baby," he muttered against her neck. "I'm right here."
just this once | f.castle
PART TWO
Pairing: Frank Castle x OFC
Warnings: language, blood, thigh riding, size kink, breath play
Chapter Summary: Just this once, he keeps telling himself. But he keeps indulging in her, in something different, every time. It's only once if it never happened before, right?
A/N: and the frank castle brain rot FORGES ONWARD
Masterlist
He watches her sleep.
He told himself he'd do it just once, and then he'd satisfy the itch and the hunger to watch her form under the pink covers would pass.
But it didn't.
Ever since she'd opened up her home to him, Frank had taken to the couch. Not every night. Not even every two nights. When his enemies could follow him, he avoided her home like it plagued him. But sometimes, once a week or maybe twice, he'd come knock at her window and slide in silently, watching her curl up in her bed with those big brown eyes staring at him. He'd make his way to her burnt orange couch, peel off some layers, and lay there--in her smell, picturing her head on the pillow his skull was cushioned on.
Picturing her in that kitchen he could see from the living room. Cooking something, maybe stirring something else on the stove.
Picturing her in the bathroom he could see if he craned his neck over the couch. Doing her hair or moisturizing her legs or showering.
Frank could never stop his mind from reeling when he was in her home. When she was inches away in her room, sound asleep with a killer under her roof.
He could never stop his mind from imagining what she was wearing under the covers. If she touched herself on the nights he wasn't here. Or the nights he was.
He always woke up hard, straining painfully against his trousers.
It became their routine; him silently joining her once or twice a week. Her silently watching him, not asking any questions, and not expecting him to still be there in the morning.
And him fucking hard in his pants all night, fighting the urge to cum on her couch like some sick way to mark his territory.
But his assignments were getting harder, longer. Time wasn't something he had an unlimited amount of, which explained why he wouldn't show up for days on end, leaving Kaya to think he'd found another Almost Nurse to patch him up.
Until his knuckles smacked into her window one night, nearing midnight, and Kaya stumbled out of bed. Couldn't he open it himself?
She figured out why he couldn't.
Covered in blood, Frank all but slid onto her floor, groaning in pain.
Kaya slammed the window shut, her heart in her throat. He wore a black long-sleeve, or what remained of it. Pieces of his shirt were hanging limply by his side, soaked with his blood. She could see wet, dark red skin through the cuts in the fabric, Frank's crimson fingers pressed to his sides.
"What's wrong?" she asked, pushing hair behind her ears.
His eyes were closed, clean-shaven jaw speckled in red. She could see the pain etched into his features, quivering his lip, frowning his brow, groaning with pain.
"Come on," she said, pulling his arm. He groaned out, white teeth clenched, lips pulled over them.
She slowly help him up to his feet, put his arm over her shoulders. He smelled like copper, like sweet caramel, like sweat, and something tingled in her stomach at how close his body was. Warm. Hard.
They limped to her bathroom, where she instructed him to sit on the floor. He bent, groaning, leaning back against the bath.
She found the first aid's kit under the sink and kneeled beside him.
His long legs splayed before him, he leaned back, his stomach rising and falling with every rapid, sharp breath he wheezed through his teeth.
She slowly reached out, hesitantly. Shy fingers slid against his jaw, his cheeks, the slight stubble scratching her palms. He froze.
She raised his head, caught his eyes. "What happened?" she asked, her voice small.
He searched her gaze, his hands falling to the floor, leaving behind bloody fingerprints on her green tiles.
"My shoulder," he growled.
"What else?"
He groaned, his head falling forward. "They cut me up," he admitted, breathless. "Beat me." Broke him.
"Okay," she said. "What hurts the most?"
He gestured to his shoulder with one limp hand.
"Dislocated?" she asked, slowly pressing her hand on his affected shoulder. He winced. It was more than dislocated. Someone had cut him deep, eviscerating the skin along the crest of his shoulder, disappearing under his armpit. The skin was dark, angry red.
"You'll have to..." she pointed at him, self-consciously pulling away. "Take it off."
She watched him struggle. Hands to herself.
He groaned, cried out in pain, breathing heavily with his forehead pressed to her shoulder. Until he leaned back, throwing the wet, torn fabric of what had been his shirt onto her bathroom floor with a sloppy flop.
She stared. Then her cheeks warmed and she cleared her throat, averting her gaze from his stomach, the hard muscles of his chest, the broad shoulders, the hardness of his arms.
He watched her too. The way her eyes roamed. Her mouth parted. Her cheeks turned a slight pink. Her bare legs, he hadn't noticed. The checkered pajama shorts.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he asked, breathless.
She shook her head.
"You've never seen a man half naked before?"
She smiled comedically, as if he wasn't sitting on her bathroom floor with a dislocated shoulder and wounds pooling blood.
"I have," she said.
His brows furrowed, his eyes darkening. "Who?"
Her smile fell slowly and she swallowed. "Some boyfriend."
"He still around?"
She shook her head.
"Good," he said, the finality of his words sitting like a rock in her stomach.
She moved, slowly, as if not to spook the scared deer in front of her. She straddled one of his legs. "Okay," she breathed. "This is going to hurt."
When she put his shoulder back where it belonged, he cried out, his good hand coming to grip her thigh, just under the curve of her ass. He gripped so hard she was sure (happy even) that he'd leave finger-shaped bruises on her flesh.
The pain eased, and he sighed, leaning back onto the bath, his grip easing but staying. "Good God, woman," he groaned, eyes closed. She watched, from her perch on his thigh, his throat working around a swallow.
"I'll stitch this up," she mumbled, starting to move off his lap, but his fingers tightened on the fleshy part of her thigh and she froze.
"Don't..." he trailed off, sighing through his nose. "Don't go. This is... this is nice."
So she stayed, putting in that first stitch and second and third, perched on his lap, bent over in concentration. His hand stayed on her thigh, twitching every time her needle threaded his skin.
She was almost done when he spoke. "Sometimes I picture you cooking." He'd been so silent until then, breathing hard through his pain, that his voice almost startled her. "I try to picture if you put music on. If you're even a good cook."
A smile stretched her lips.
"Sometimes I try to picture you on that couch you let me sleep on," he continued. When she peaked at him, he was leaning back, eyes closed. "I try to imagine if you watch TV curled up or lying on your side. Tea or coffee after dinner."
She mumbled, "always tea."
She watched him smile from the corner of her eye.
"Sometimes, I try to picture you asleep." He said this slowly, testing the waters. She reached over to grab the scissors, cutting the string off the last stitch on his shoulder. Her cheeks ramped up to 400 degrees when he continued. "Do you wear those shorts to bed?"
She leaned back, putting the scissors, the bloody string, the wet needle to the side. "Yeah."
He breathed in deeply, opening his eyes, sitting forward. The hand on her thigh twitched. "Sometimes." His chest heaved with his next breath. The next part came out quietly. "Sometimes I try to picture what it would look like to fuck you."
She squirmed, but he reached out with his other hand, fighting through the pain in his shoulder, grabbing onto her jaw. "I know, baby, I know," he hushed, trying to get her to meet his gaze. Her cheek was warm under his palm. "How does that make you feel?"
Was he delirious from the pain? From the blood loss?
She couldn't meet his gaze.
"Are you afraid?" he asked lowly.
She shook her head.
"Good," he cooed.
The hand on her thigh pressed down, pushing her bottom hard against his thigh. The seam of her shorts pressed onto her clit and she bit back a gasp.
His fingers around her cheek, hooking on her skull, pulled her closer. "I want to know," he started, his tongue slipping out to wet his lower lip. "I want to know if you touch yourself to me."
Because God knows he has to her.
"Kaya." Her name in his mouth was pure sin.
She made a noise, deep in her throat, somewhere between a groan and a whine.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Kaya, please, let me... let me kiss you."
She hesitated, only for a second, pushing her hair behind one ear. Then she looked up, saw the wretched look in those pained dark eyes, saw the way he was silently begging her. Needing her.
She leaned in slightly, barely, and it was enough for him. He pulled her head to him, bringing her mouth down on his.
He tasted like blood. But she didn't care.
This wasn't a romantic kiss. This wasn't slow. Frank had no time.
He kissed her roughly, parting her lips to lick into her mouth, sliding his hand from her cheek to her neck, anchoring her to him so they wouldn't be two ships passing each other in the night. She'd stay. He'd stay. And he'd kiss her until he'd refilled that empty, dark hole in his soul.
She pulled away, breathless, lips red and swollen. He pulled her back in, not giving her an inch to breathe.
And he kept quenching his thirst, this dirty, dark desire to have her under his hold. Kept letting her a second to breathe, pulling her back in, pressing his fingertips into her throat until she was gasping against his mouth, writhing against him.
His wounds, raw and throbbing, couldn't compare to the fire the sound of her whining against his mouth elicited.
"Frank," she groaned, pushing against his chest.
A little more, he thought, pressing his fingers into her thigh, pushing until he was rocking her hips forward, backwards, slowly.
She whined, brows pressed together.
He pulled back, letting her breathe, watching her mouth part with every breath he allowed. "Let me..." he started. "Let me make you feel good."
She was shy, he could tell. This man, who she barley knew, stitched up and patched up, was asking to make her cum.
"I won't touch you," he rasped. "Just...use me like I've been usin' you, baby."
She tried to hide her red cheeks behind her hair. But he could see the mess in her eyes.
She leaned in slowly, hesitant. He leaned back, teasing her, catching her mouth with his. His hand started the rhythm, dragging her cunt across the hard length of his thigh, slowly.
"You a mess down there, sweetheart?" he asked between kisses, biting on her lip, kissing up her jaw.
Eyes closed, she remained silent. She was making him work for it.
He pressed her hips down harder, pushing them back and forth, back and forth. "Tell me," he whispered, voice raspy, broken, wretched. "Tell me how wet you are for me, Kaya."
She gasped, tried to kiss him to shut him up, but he pushed her neck back. God, the sight of her; back arched, neck thrown back, his hand wrapped around her throat, his other hand helping her ride his thigh.
"Tell me," he ordered, his voice gruff.
"Yes," she moaned, and at this point, he wasn't helping her much with the humping. She was dragging her hips all on her own.
"Yes what?"
"S-so wet for you, Frank," she squeaked, eyes squeezed shut.
"Good girl." He saw her visibly shudder, and he pulled her face back to his, kissing her with a new found drive. Licking inside her mouth. Depriving her of breath so she kept moaning, whining against his mouth like that.
She was moving so much faster, on her own, and the pride that lifted in his chest was new, a foreign feeling he'd almost forgotten. She was almost there, he could tell, with every strangled moan he let through her throat. With every drag of her cunt against his thigh.
"C'mon baby," he encouraged, bringing his mouth to her ear. "All them things I want to do to you, this is nothin'."
She whined, that lovely, low sound that would have him cumming in his pants if he wasn't missing half a gallon of blood.
"Imagine what it would feel like, yeah?" he continued, voice low, raspy, sinful. "With my fingers up that wet cunt, huh? Finger fucking that sweet thing."
He licked his lips.
"Filling you up in that tight little pussy, yeah?"
Asking her questions when she was on the brink of the precipice was cruel. But what could she expect from a killer?
He brought her eyes to his, fingers on her jaw in a vice grip. "Answer me."
"Mhmm." She couldn't form coherent words. Or even a thought. He smiled.
Her hips stuttered and he kept her mouth just before his eyes, so he could watch her it part as her orgasm washed through her. He reveled in the relief coursing across her face, the pleasure pooling, the aftershocks of her cunt clenching on nothing.
She sat there, motionless, breathless.
"You did so good, baby," he whispered, smoothing down her hair, pressing his thumb to her lip. "So good for me."
He kissed her softly, gently this time. Tenderly.
She cleaned up slowly after, throwing away the needle and stiff thread and bloody gauze. Her clit buzzed, her cheeks warm and red.
He watched her, perched at the same spot, as she put everything away neatly. She helped him to her room, helped him lay on her bed over the covers. She bandaged him up in silence and watched as his eyes traced her every move like magnets.
When she was done, she turned the light off, curled under the covers beside the sturdy weight of him, and waited until his breathing had evened out to fall asleep.
just this once | f.castle
PART ONE
Pairing: Frank Castle x OFC
Warnings: language, violence done to the body, blood.
Chapter Summary: He promised himself just once. Just once and he'd never do it again. How foolish of him to think he couldn't get addicted.
A/N: Recently (okay, since the punisher came out years ago), I've been on a frank castle binge. And now I want to get it out into the open so let's GO.
Masterlist
He promised himself it would just be once. Just this once, and never again. Just this once, because the stab wound to his stomach was throbbing, leaking crimson through the cracks of his fingers pressed tightly against his zipper. It felt like he was keeping his stomach from slitting open and his intestines from tumbling onto the damp cement.
The truth is, he'd barely made it out alive. He'd been beat up before, stabbed, broken, split in half and sown back together. He'd suffered, God knows, he'd suffered. And he'd always managed to crawl back to his safe house, breathless, throat on fire, bloodied and broken and bruised and bone-deep tired.
But this time, stabbed so fucking deep near his appendix, he wasn't sure he'd make it to his safe house. He was so far away, on the other side of Hell's Kitchen. He'd already lost so much blood--his eyes were bleary, sweat soaking his upper lip and forehead, his breath slow and sluggish, his heart beating slower with every step he took. Even his mind, a delirious swamp of basic human instincts, wasn't as sharp as he needed it to be.
Maybe that's why he decided the fire escape would be a good place to rest. Just for a few minutes. Catch his breath, staunch the bleeding. Maybe dry out the sweat.
He barely made it up to the second floor. He was sure he left a gory trail of red on his way up, but he couldn't care less. No one was following him.
He sat down next to a blurry window, groaning in pain, leaning against the damp brick wall.
He didn't know if he fell asleep, passed out, died, or something but he woke to the sound of the window opening. Wood scraping together. He saw a leg, long and feminine, extend over the ledge, a white sandal squeaking on the wet floor of the fire scape.
It's like his body lit up with fireworks. One second, he was on the floor, curled up into his pain, trying to breathe away the tearing in his abdomen. The next second, he was on his feet.
He knew what she saw the instant her head came out the window: One second, she was mindlessly going to sit on the ledge of her window and stargaze or whatever. And the next second, she saw a shadow peel away from the wall, unfurl like smoke, dark hood pulled over his head, a tall and dangerous stranger.
He couldn't let her scream. He couldn't let her rush back in and call 911.
Adrenaline shot through the remaining blood in his veins and he sprung forward, grabbing her arm, putting a bloody hand over her mouth, smothering her yell. He pushed her through the window, climbing in after her, shutting it loudly.
Her room smelled like honey.
She had a pink bedspread and a lamp on her nightstand that glowed pink too.
She even had a pink chair.
He held her close, jaw clenched. His heart beat like a jackhammer in his chest.
"Don't scream."
She looked down, shoulders to her ears, wet lashes fluttering against dampened cheeks.
"I won't hurt you."
As if that would help. She'd just been dragged into her apartment, in her room, by a stranger lurking on her fire escape.
She was trembling, quivering like a leaf. He looked down, taking in the pajama shorts and the t-shirt. No bra.
"I...I wasn't there to hurt you." He leaned forward, tried to catch her eyes.
She looked up, brown eyes watery. There was fear etched into her dilated pupils.
She looked down, noticed his blood-soaked hoodie.
"I'm gonna take my hand off," Frank said, voice low. "Don't scream. Please."
When he took his hand off the lower half of her face, he left an eerie red imprint of his hand. Fingerprints kissing her jaw.
Her lips were trembling, wet with his blood. "You're....hurt," she said.
Frank took a step back. He stumbled, his heart slowing and slowing and slowing until he fell to one knee. She took a step forward. He put a hand out to stop her, hold onto her, bring her closer.
"I should call an ambulance," she said, her voice honey-sweet and melodic.
He reached over, grabbed behind her knee. "No." He breathed in, sharp and hard. He was losing his vision. "No ambulance. Please. No hospital. No police."
He stumbled forward awkwardly, bumping into her legs, falling onto her wooden floor. The last thing he saw before the world turned black was her knees next to his head.
***
He woke up in the exact same spot. Staring up at her ceiling. His head pounded where it lay harshly against her wooden floor.
His throat was raw, dry, like a cracked riverbed. His mouth cotton. His tongue thick and sticky.
His stomach ached. Hurt. When he pressed a tentative hand to his wound, he found his shirt was halfway up his chest. And his wound was...stitched.
He tried to get up, but his abs screamed in protest.
"Hey."
He turned, looked at the girl sitting on the edge of her bed. Her long legs folded at the ankles. Her hands in her lap. Her face clean of the red imprint he was sure he left on her.
He groaned, looked around, analyzed the floor.
"I didn't," she said, started, then folded her legs under her, criss cross applesauce.
"Didn't what?" he asked, voice broken and cracked.
"Didn't call the police. Or the ambulance." She pointed upwards like she had a new idea. "I didn't even call the cleaner to wipe up the blood you left everywhere in here."
He lay back down, closed his eyes, smiled slowly. "Thanks." Then his smile fell. "You stitched me up?"
She made an acquiescing sound.
"You're a nurse?"
"Almost."
"What's an Almost Nurse?"
She hummed. "Didn't make it to the Registered part before I figured out I don't like it."
He smiled again. "Okay then, Almost Nurse." A silent moment until, "I'm sorry," he said.
She didn't reply. Instead, she watched him struggle to his feet, look at the dried puddle of blood on the floor, straighten his hoodie, and limp to her window.
"You could use the door, you know," she mumbled.
He turned, a pained wince on his face. He took the moment to look her over; dark hair in a claw clip, mouth pursed shyly, tiny on her pink bed.
She looked beautiful. She wasn't something that every guy would look at, desire, or even pursue. But to him, right then, sitting there afraid of him, fingernails caked in his DNA, he thought she was pretty.
"Yeah," he answered lowly. He moved to her bedroom door, through her hallway, through her kitchen. He knew she was following, far behind but still. He unlocked her door, saw the flimsy lock, made a weird, instant mental note to make sure she has a sturdier lock, and opened the door. He heard the stupid lock click in place.
***
She didn't think she'd ever see him again. She cleaned the blood off her floor, her window pane and ledge, and the trail he left on the fire escape.
She stopped sleeping with the light on, fear keeping her eyes on the window, looking for a shadow.
She stopped checking the fire escape every time she got home.
She stopped putting the TV down or her music on low to make sure she didn't miss any noise.
It took her weeks to get the smell of him out of her mind; something dark and smooth, like melting caramel with a hint of copper.
She was convinced she'd dreamed the entire ordeal until she was sitting on her window ledge, and the fire escape made that telltale sound that someone was climbing it.
She got to her feet, looked over the railing, and sure enough, a hooded figure was making his way up.
Her heart stuttered, then raced like a mad dog in her chest. She backed up as he came onto her landing, looking worse for wear.
This time, he wasn't catching her by surprise. She was dressed appropriately with long pajama pants and a sweater. But the way he looked, bruised and broken, made her insides twist.
"So," he sighed, cradling his right side. "Does an Almost Nurse carry some painkillers?" He winced.
She nodded quietly. She took a second to look him over, really look him over. A nose that's been broken a few dozen times. Lovely lips, strong jaw, pained brown eyes, upturned eyebrows. Thick dark chocolate hair under the hood.
She gestured to her window. "Come in through the only entrance you know how to use." It was meant to sound sarcastic. Funny, even. But in her nervous state, it came out dry and mean.
He made a face, somewhere between pain and desperation.
He followed her though. Into the same pink bedroom. He looked for the stain on the floor but it had been scrubbed clean. He looked for the bloody handprint on her window, but that too had vanished. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd been in here, but he could tell by the way she moved, like a prey lured by her predator, that she hadn't expected him to come back.
Hoped? Yes. Expected? Definitely not.
She turned to him, socked feet fidgeting. "So," she sighed. "What's...wrong?"
He laughed, then his ribs bloomed with fire and he winced. "Got beat up pretty bad."
The truth? If Frank was being, well, frank, he would admit to her that his wounds were not bad at all. He'd bad bruised ribs before. Hell, he'd had broken ribs before. This time, it was definitely just bruised ribs and a black eye and a few punches that left open, bloody scratches on his forehead and under his eye.
"Still can't go to the hospital?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
He nodded. Grunted.
She nodded back, then disappeared in the hall. He followed her. He had to. He didn't trust her enough, not yet, to not call the police. He was still a stranger.
He looked at himself in her mirror, the one over her sink, the sink that had her girl lotions and toothbrush and yes, a pink razor.
She opened the cabinet under the sink and got out a basket. It rattled as she set it on the sink and opened it, digging through the bottles of prescription medication until she plucked two orange bottles.
"For the pain," she said, holding one bottle out to him. "And for the nerves." She put the other bottle out to him.
"Nerves?"
She shrugged. "Figured that whatever you're up to at night is...stressful." She leaned against the sink.
He licked his lips, smiled, rattled the bottles next to his ear. "What is it do you think I do?"
She shrugged again. "I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I went through the obvious first, you know, the mafia or something. But I wouldn't be alive."
He grunted in response.
"Then I thought, hey maybe he just got mugged once and has a shady past of dealing drugs so he can't go to the hospital 'cause his blood work would come up positively criminal."
The corners of his mouth quirked up.
"And then, I thought to myself, hey this is Hell's Kitchen, and we already have one vigilante, so maybe now we have two?"
His smile fell. He looked down, twirling the bottles in his hand. "Yeah, baby, I ain't no vigilante."
She bit her lip, breathed in deeply. "Then what are you?"
"I'm a killer."
She swallowed. Audibly.
Then he waddled out of her apartment, choosing the window this time instead of the door, and climbed down her fire escape. When he was back in his safe house, he took out the bottles, popping two for the pain and one for the nerves. Then he looked at the label and something like sunshine poured into his chest.
Her name. It was Kaya.
***
She didn't have to wait long until the stranger showed up again. This time, he knocked. An awkward graze of his knuckles on the blurry window glass.
He saw her shadow slither like black smoke before the window slowly, gingerly slid open.
"Yeah?"
He leaned down, peaking in to see her standing there. "So, Kaya, what does an Almost Nurse actually do?"
She pushed the window open more so she could sit on the ledge, denying him entry.
"What does a random man who shows up at my house and calls himself a killer actually do all night?"
He smirked, pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and nodded. "Got me there."
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
He groaned, which turned into a laugh. "I came to..." He winced. "I came to see if you have anymore painkillers." Lie.
She frowned. "It's been a week. How did you go through a whole bottle?"
"Got into trouble."
She swallowed. "That's unfair."
He frowned. "What is?"
"Well, you know my name and I don't know yours."
He smiled and huffed. Then he bent at the knees, crouching before her. They were eye-level know, and if he reached out, he could bump his shoulder with her knee.
"It's Frank."
She looked at him, doe-brown eyes, pink mouth pulling into a smile. "If you're an addict, Frank," she said, and God, his name on her tongue was a sin. "I will not feed that."
He bent his head. "Right."
"Who did you kill?"
His head snapped up, his face free of that carefree look and covered in something...else.
"People," he chose to answer.
"Good people?" she asked. "Innocent people?" He could see the fear climbing up her features, like she'd been working herself up to this question. He understood why.
"No, sweetheart," he sighed. "Not good people. Not innocent people."
"Okay." It was small, like she accepted something deep inside. "Do you...do you want to come in?"
He looked up, watched her slide back into her room. She didn't force him or ask him again. She just left the window open and walked out of his field of vision, and he followed, folding himself to fit through her window.
Her room still smelled like honey. The bedspread was still pink. "Do you have anywhere to sleep?" she asked, sitting on the edge of her bed.
He nodded.
"Do you have anywhere nice to sleep?" she reiterated.
His safe house was a hole in the wall with a thin pillow and cans and cans of baked beans. It wasn't nice. It was safe.
She could see the exhaustion in his eyes, like a man starved, running for days. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she started. "But...look, if you need a place to stay, I don't mind."
What she was implying meant more to him than she'd ever know. "Yeah," he answered. "I'll take the couch."
cotton candy | s.riley
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pairing: Simon Riley aka Ghost x Original female character
Warnings: language
Chapter Summary: Ghost has never felt the need to protect her as much as he does now.
A/N: There's no much here but the continuation and sort of closure from last chapter. This was more of a transition from where we left off last time (LMAO) to what's next.
Masterlist
Find it on AO3 HERE.
MINORS DNI BELOW THE CUT
When she awoke, Laura wasn't blinded anymore. In fact, she wasn't sleeping against Ghost's form anymore. It was Soap whom she leaned against, Soap that she was curled up on, his hands in her hair, his fingers caressing her jaw.
He was shaking her awake.
The room had darkened when she rose on her haunches, looking around with puffy eyes and brain fog.
"We're cleared to go out," Soap was saying, but Laura was looking for Ghost.
She groaned, reaching for her pants, and standing up to put them on.
Soap stood, watching her with a corner smirk. "You okay?" he asked when she lost her balance with only one foot in her pant leg.
She sighed, straightened, and slowly put her other foot through, pulling her pants back up. She hadn't noticed how sticky her panties were, and it made her so uncomfortable to put her pants over it.
"I'm okay, just tired, and I want to shower."
Soap grabbed her wrist gently, looking out towards the door as if someone would come bursting in.
"No I mean..." he trailed off, searching her eyes. She kept them averted, looking at his feet, the floor, the cot where everything had changed between the both of them. The three of them.
He gently brought her face to his with his thumb on her chin, dragging her eyes right back to his baby blues. "Are you okay?" he repeated, much slower, much more emphasized.
She swallowed hard, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. "I'm just... what do we do from here?"
He smirked, cockiness etched onto his features. "That's all up to you, lass," he answered, gruff. "But right now, let's get you back to the RV, back to Laswell, and then a shower!"
---
Alejandro and Price were both pacing in opposite directions of Laswell's small office. The lights had been dimmed, the screen of her computer turned off. Laswell kept appearing in glimpses, between the interlacing bodies of Alejandro and Price, as they paced back and forth, meeting in the middle.
She was sitting at her desk, hands clasped together, her chin rested on top of the net her fingers made. Her eyes were huge, glassy, dissociated.
"How many?" she asked--again.
"Eight," Price confirmed.
Eight members of staff dead. Nineteen injured. Twenty six shadows identified--Twenty dead, six missing.
All for Laura.
Ghost's insides felt like hot spaghetti, twisting and slipping around under the skin of his belly. Churning. He could picture it, piss yellow noodles in a pool of his blood, angrily coiling into each other, stretching and pulling at his sides.
It was hot, burning, scalding--his anxiety. It was so unbearable that he had to bend over in his chair, elbows on his knees. It made him tense, like his stomach was made of lead, like he was physically sick.
It made him hypersensitive to all the sensations in his body--this anxiety. The way his t-shirt was scratching at his chest. The way it was too tight on his shoulders. His neck seemed to itch, but it wasn't an itch, more of an oversensitivity.
He suddenly got up, the chair scraping against the linoleum.
Laswell looked up suddenly.
With two feet planted on the ground, Ghost faced his team. Price stopped pacing near the wall. Alejandro right near Simon.
"We know exactly who did this," Ghost said. "We know exactly who ordered this hit on Laura, on us."
Everyone remained quiet. Ghost was stating the obvious.
"And we know where his safe houses are. We know where his businesses are. We can hit him where it hurts, draw him out like venom in a snake bite. We can track his convoys, his trade offs, and show him we're watching him."
Laswell breathed in through her nose, then sighed loudly, shaking her head. "I like the enthusiasm, Ghost, but Alvarez will just go underground. Right now, he thinks we don't know where he keeps his guns, his drugs, his women. He thinks we have no idea where his men lay their heads at night, where they shit, eat, shower." She got up, putting her palms down on her desk.
Ghost could see her visibly tense.
"That's how we can track him. Because if he knows we have the coordinates to eight of his safe houses, hell, if he knew we even had intel on his next run--he'd vanish right under our noses."
Ghost bit his tongue.
Price put up his hands like he was stopping two bulls from butting heads.
"I understand there's a...good reason why you want to jump right on the gun, Ghost." He could've just said her name. "But there's a reason why we do these operations covertly. Because it works. And guys like Alvarez are slimy. He's making good money here, and that's why he's still here. But if he gets a whiff of us anywhere near his shit, he'll pack up. He's the kinda guy who would rather risk losing some money and build a new operation elsewhere than get caught."
Ghost wanted to scream. None of this was helping him--or helping the angry soup spaghetti in his belly.
"So what's next?" he asked. His eyes met Laswell's. "What are our orders?"
She sighed, the tendons in her neck visible ridges under her pale skin.
She looked at Price with a cautionary glance.
"What?" Ghost asked, his voice tense, brimming on the edges of a scream.
"We have one of them in custody," Price answered, tucking his chin to his chest.
Ghost's eyebrows shot up under the mask.
"You have one of Alvarez's men in custody!?" His voice all but bounced off the walls of the room. "What are our orders, Laswell!?"
"Alejandro and Price will interrogate the prisoner," Laswell said, eyeing Ghost cautiously. "I have Gaz on the dead shadows, trying to piece together their identities. They had some electronics on them, so he'll go through each and every one of them to get any information."
"What about me?" Ghost asked. "Soap?"
Laswell nodded. "This position has been compromised." She looked at him dead on. "Laura's position has been compromised. Alvarez knows she's here, with us. And right now, he thinks he has the upper hand. He thinks we have no idea where he is, where his men are. And he thinks he knows where Laura is, and that he will just come and get her."
"He'll never be able to breach these walls again," Ghost answered.
"Maybe, but that doesn't mean he won't try again. And we can't have that."
Ghost shrugged. "So what are my orders, Laswell?"
She straightened, jutted her chin. "You and Sergeant MacTavish will be put on a special, undercover operation, starting in three days. You'll be tasked to transport Laura to Pattaya City, in the Gulf, where we'll have you evacuated to Singapore. You'll be assigned new identities under the guise of employees of the LHA Armada."
A helicarrier?
"I'll be on the boat, as will the boys." Price stepped into Ghost's vision. "We'll be the decoy. Once Alvarez and his men are on our tail, you'll leave with the kid."
Ghost swallowed his worry. "Three days?" he asked.
"You'll have to be prepped and ready to leave Friday, 0700 hours," Laswell confirmed.
Ghost nodded. "Yes ma'am."
"Get your team ready as well."
"My team?"
"Sergeant MacTavish and, well, Laura."
Ghost shook his head. "Laura is a civilian. She's not part of any team."
Alejandro snorted. "She's is now, Ghost," he said, crossing his arms. "It will do you and her some good to have her trained in combat, weapons, and tactical."
"She can't possibly be expected to learn and remember all the training we took years to learn in just three days." The spaghetti soup was swirling madly in his belly again.
"Three days is better than no days, hermano," Alejandro sighed.
"And she has some hand-to-hand training, as I've been told," Price added.
"And she's smart," Alejandro continued, his voice lower. "We're lucky we got a target whose got a head on her shoulders and knows how to use it."
Ghost felt the spaghetti in his insides melt. "I'll go warn my...team," he said, and headed for the door.
Everything on base was different now. There were security checkpoints everywhere, and Ghost had to give his DoD numbers eight times before he made it back to the RV.
When he saw the lights on, he could physically feel the angry, churning mess inside him seep out of his intestines, pool down his legs, and collect in a puddle beneath his feet.
He saw her shadow in the kitchen window. She was sitting at the table, directly in front of another shadow with a mohawk.
The hinges on the RV door squealed to life when Ghost entered.
Laura perked up, her cheeks reddening when she watched him come in, closing the door behind him. Ghost wanted to drink that in, the look on her face, that innocent, round, doe-eyed look.
Her dark ponytail, the sweet roundness of her cheeks, the way her t-shirt clung to her shoulders.
But he only had three days.
"We leave in three days," he said.
Soap's face hardened. "L.T?"
"We're evacuating Laura to Pattaya. And then we're waterbound to Singapore."
Laura frowned, looking between the two men. "Wait what?"
Soap sighed. "You heard him, lass," he muttered. "We have three days to get you ready. And then we're walking all the way to Pattaya."
Laura looked up at Ghost with those big brown eyes of hers. Ghost felt his insides harden, and suddenly, overwhelmingly, the need to protect her climbed up and took residence between his ribs.
cotton candy | s.riley
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pairing: Simon Riley aka Ghost x Original female character
Warnings: ok so UM AHAHAH. SMUT. SMUT. SMUT. Reverse harem? Language.
Chapter Summary: She never thought she'd ever do this. But here she was. And here she will be forever, stuck in this room with them, unable to ever truly leave. Because the woman who walked through that door will not be the same who walks out.
A/N: HAHAHAHAHAH i went so overboard. Enjoy depravity.
Masterlist
Find it on AO3 HERE.
It wasn't long until the boredom set in.
With Soap laying down on a bunk, arm thrown over his shoulder, and Laura standing in the corner like she was acting out a childish punishment--the place felt odd.
Ghost had no idea how long they would take to sweep the base for shadows and get comms back on. He had no idea how long it would take to reboot everything.
But he did know that it was safer for him to stay here, with Laura, making sure her heart kept beating and her blood stayed in her veins.
He'd been so sure she was dead, under that guy. Her feet had gone still, her hands falling each side of her head. Ghost remembered the rage that had consumed him, from head to toe, gripping his rifle until he was sure his knuckles would burst from under his skin.
He'd calculated that shot in seconds and he'd prayed it didn't nip her head, her ear, or even her hair. He would've torn that man to shreds just for putting his hands on her.
And when Ghost had seen the blood, hot and wet, dotted on her face, splotched on her neck and gushing down her neck--he was sure she'd had her throat slit, but she'd gasped, air filling her lungs and his at the same time.
He looked at her now, huddled in the corner as if mommy put her there for bad behavior. Hands around her waist, leaning against the wall with her eyes cast to her dirty, bloodied sneakers.
"Can I go out - "
"No," Soap and Ghost said in unison--for like, the 12th time.
"But I just want to wash my hands," she whined, and Ghost snorted behind the balaclava. He'd taken off the bone mask, and it sat beside him on the bunk. A sliver of light kept drifting into the room, from the closed drapes, and sometimes, the sun would catch in his eyes and he'd close them.
"Alright," Soap groaned, swinging up and onto his feet, exasperated. "If princess wants water, I'll get her water."
Ghost wanted to laugh as he watched Soap saunter to the door, giving Laura a grimace that she laughed at. At least she was laughing. It was better than completely catatonic, which she'd been for the first 20 minutes of their quest in silence in this room.
He knew she was moving towards him even without seeing her. Ghost was staring straight ahead, his well-tuned ears catching on to the sound of her sneakers scratching on the white tiled floor.
"Ghost?"
"Laura?" Her name on his lips tasted like honey. He'd never think of this particular arrangement of letters in any other way. This name would forever be branded against his brain, an annoying, raven-haired reminder.
"I just want to say thank you," she said on an exasperated breath, as if she was at gunpoint forced to say that.
Ghost reached up, unhooked his helmet, and took it off. A flicker of light sliced horizontally on his face, brightening one blue eye. He let his helmet clammer to the ground. Then he pulled apart the velcro of his vest, the sound like a thunderclap in the silence of the room.
"Ghost?"
He hummed in response.
"Why are you... are you getting undressed?"
He smiled behind the mask. "I'm just shedding some weight," he answered calmly. He could practically hear the wheels turning in her head, the little hamster going a million miles an hour. "You're welcome, by the way," he said.
She took him by surprise when she sat down next to him, gripping the edge of the bunk bed with white knuckles.
He let the vest hit the ground too.
He looked at her, saw the bruises on her neck, under the blood. He felt rage rise in his throat all over again, but he clamped it to ash between his teeth before it could get any further.
"Are you okay?" he muttered. She looked up at him; big-doe eyes, wet with tears, cherry-red cheeks.
"My throat hurts," she mumbled back. "Like someone poured red hot lava into my mouth."
He clenched his teeth, picturing that guy over her, squeezing every atom of breath from her lungs. "That's what strangling does to you," he answered.
And then she said it. "I'm bored."
Ghost wanted to laugh because half of his job was waiting around, bored out of his God forsaken mind.
He was about to answer, tell her to entertain herself in her head like he does by thinking of her when Soap came back into the room with a bang.
"Alright!" he sing-songed. "There's water in a bucket, a soap bar, and a wet towel. Where do you need me, pancake?"
She turned, smiling back at Soap. He made his way over, setting the bucket at her feet, the soapy water sloshing onto her shoes. She chuckled, pulling her feet up, and the sound filled Ghost's head with birds.
Soap and Ghost exchanged a heavy look as Soap dipped his hands in the water, laving up the towel and then wiping her shoes.
"You don't have to," Laura mumbled, embarrassed.
Soap laughed, low in his chest, but he wiped her shoes clean and then dumped the towel back into the water. Taking it out, he wrung it and reached for her face.
"I can do that," she laughed, teeth and all.
Soap raised a brow. "Let me, please." He took one soapy hand against her shoulder, wetting her shirt, and gently wiped the side of her face. Ghost watched her eyes, huge and glassy, the flicker of light from the drapes cutting along her left eye.
Soap was kneeling between her legs, wiping along her neck, wetting the front of her t-shirt. She kept looking at him, examining the soot on his neck, the length of his fingers, his shoulders.
She barely registered when Ghost brushed her hair over her shoulder, raven locks sliding across her wet shirt.
She watched as Soap wet the towel again and purposefully let it drip and soak through her shirt, squeezing it against her bloodied neck. Ghost watched the drops disappear into her shirt, and he was jealous of them, that they got to be so close to her skin.
Ghost took his gloves off and he didn't miss the way her eyes flicked down to watch his fingers flex against his knees. He also didn't miss the way her tongue came out to wet her lips.
---
My heart was beating a million miles an hour, an angry little drummer boy bent on breaking every last one of my ribs.
As the water soaked my front, rendering my shirt useless at this point, I felt Ghost's bare fingers drag my hair back again, folding it behind my ears.
I breathed in, watching Soap's mouth pull into a smile. He put the rag back into the water, wrung it, brought it to my chin. The force of him cleaning my skin made my face turn, and then I was facing blue eyes, calm ocean waters, rimmed with light blonde lashes.
Ghost dragged a thumb across the left side of my face. "She's so pretty," he hummed. I had no idea who he was telling this to. To me. to himself. To Soap.
But the way he bore his eyes into mine felt like being plugged into a wall--electric and vibrant. I wanted to soak in that light.
Soap's wet hands dragged down my neck, washing away the dirt and blood and fingerprints. He caught onto the hem of my shirt. "Take this off," he said, calmly. But it wasn't an ask. It was a demand.
I gulped, retuning my gaze to the man at my feet. "But-"
He shook the soaping towel in front of me. "Gotta get every drop of blood off ya," he interrupted, his lips pulled back, showing his teeth. It felt like a predator's warning, showing his canines to the trusting little lamb.
Ghost helped me out of my t-shirt, pushing my hair back behind my shoulders once I was free of the soaked garment. I didn't look at him, rather entranced by the way Soap's eyes drunk me in; wide brown irises, reddening cheeks. It made me wonder if Ghost ever blushed.
"She really is somethin'," Soap muttered.
I was left in my bra, my own cheeks warming at the idea of being half naked before these two men.
My skin was on fire. I was sure that they could see the steam rising off the water droplets on my chest.
I sat there, heart hammering against my breastbone, as Soap finished washing the blood from my chest. From my face. Scrubbing my ears and my hairline until I felt raw, humid.
All while Ghost sat silently beside me, his eyes burning cigarette holes into the side of my face.
Soap slowly dropped the wet towel into the bucket with a sloppy sound. I watched him drag the bucket aside, the sound like grating nails on a board.
I swallowed hard when he scooted in between my legs, his hands spreading my knees apart to accommodate the width of his shoulders.
Ghost grabbed my chin, jerking my eyes to his. They were hooded, his pupils blown. "It's okay," he hushed, pressing his thumb against my lower lip.
I felt Soap's hand brush my waist.
I couldn't believe this was happening. I thought... I thought Ghost would never let anyone touch me this way. Grab my bra straps and pull them down, rise onto his knees and kiss my shoulders. Hold one of my tits in his hands, squeezing, pulling, groaning into my shoulder.
Ghost held my stare as Soap kissed up my neck, over the sensitive bruises, until he was kissing my jaw, his breath in my ear.
"You wanna kiss her, Sarge?" Ghost grumbled, his eyes creasing. He was smiling.
Soap chuckled lowly, darkly. "Yeah."
Ghost let go of my lip and his hands were replaced by Soap's fingers gliding across my jaw, pulling my face to his. He'd always been taller than me, but like this, with him knelt before me and me sitting on the cot, we were finally seeing eye-to-eye.
I saw him smile, a corner smirk, before he pressed his mouth to mine.
He held the back of my head, kissing me slowly. Devouring. Savoring. He tasted so different than Ghost. Where the latter was all dark ash and sweet musk, Soap was honey and blueberry.
The tip of his tongue caressed my lower lip. He groaned, grabbing onto my thigh as he deepened the kiss. He was getting rougher, quicker, kissing me with such ardour. He was a man starved, parched, drinking from the oasis in the dessert.
He pulled away, panting, watching me. I hadn't even touched him, so surprised, so baffled by the...whole situation.
My cheeks were aflame as I raised my hands. I grabbed onto his forearm with one, wrapping the other on the side of his neck, pulling him in for more.
This time, I was ready. I kissed him back, savoring the sickly sweet taste of him--his tongue against mine, his canines nipping the corner of my mouth. The way the stubble on his chin scratched at mine. The way he smelled, invading me. The way his hand tugged the roots of my hair.
He was warm and sweet and even the small sound his made when I pulled him closer made a volley of birds take flight across my tummy.
I hadn't even noticed that Ghost was touching me, petting my hair, rubbing his knuckles down my arm.
Then Soap pulled back, examining me under his thick lashes. "You good, lassie?" he whispered.
I gulped, looking up at Ghost. Why?
"Yeah," I answered.
Ghost hummed. "Lie back," he ordered.
I frowned, watching him and Soap get to their feet, standing over me, towering.
Then Ghost stepped forward, gently pushing me back into the cot, twisting me until my shoulders pressed into the flimsy material.
I waited, staring at the ceiling. Ghost came to my feet, Soap behind my head. He bent at the knees, bringing his mouth next to my ear.
"You know how good you taste?" he whispered, drawing goosebumps along my skin. I saw his hands move, felt Ghost pick up my foot and tug my shoe off.
I felt Soap's hands push my bra down, freeing my tits, heard him hiss through his teeth. I felt Ghost tug my other shoe free, heard it land dully on the floor.
"Look at ya," Soap groaned against my hairline, pinching my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, rolling them, causing me to arch off the cot and bend my knees.
I felt a deep, aching thud between my legs as I pulled towards Soap, hearing him coo in my ear.
And then Ghost's fingers were popping the button of my pants, sliding down my zipper. My breath hitched and I arched up, balling my hands into fists.
Ghost trailed a finger up my bare navel.
"It's okay," Soap mumbled in my ear, pressing his palms flat against my breasts. "Let us see you, Laura."
I shuddered, but remained quiet. Ghost's fingers returned to my waist, hooking in the band of my pants, tugging downward.
"Lift your hips up for me," he ordered, his voice soft. I obeyed, raising my hips, and I heard Ghost shuffle down, pulling my pants until he'd revealed my thighs, my knees. Until he was carefully lifting up one ankle to tug my pant leg off, the other.
Until I heard my pants fall to the floor.
"Fuck," Ghost muttered.
I pulled my knees together, my hands automatically shielding my panties. Even my toes curled in my socks.
"She looks amazing from here," Soap said, a hint of amusement in his voice as he palmed my tits, pushing them together between his hands. "How does she look from there, L.T?"
I wanted to melt. Not from being so exposed in front of Ghost, Soap. Not from being with two men. Not because I was liking it.
But because they were discussing me as if I wasn't there.
"Fucking ravishing, Johnny," Ghost answered, and I heard him get to his knees, my eyes locking with the ceiling as his hands grabbed my waist roughly, dragging me to the edge of the cot.
My insides turned to liquid when he hauled each leg over his shoulder, the backs of my knees on the rough fabric of his army-issued shirt.
"Here," Ghost said, and he handed something dark to Soap. "She likes to be blinded."
I opened my mouth the say something, but Soap wrapped a dark cloth over my eyes, tying it behind my head. I reached up, feeling it with my hands. Soap dragged his fingers along my forearms, slowly pulling my hands away.
I felt Ghost's breath on my inner thigh, and I clamped up, afraid that if I didn't control myself, I'd wiggle my hips in his face like a desperate whore.
"Let me in, Laura," Ghost warned, pressing one big hand to my thigh and pressing it open.
"She's blushing," Soap said, bemused, kissing my temple, my hairline. Playing with my tits as he saw fit--and I let him.
I let him because I felt Ghost hook a finger in my panties, pull the wet fabric aside until his cool breath was ghosting my core. I let Soap pinch my nipples, knead my tits because now Ghost pressed the pad of his thumb to my clit and my entire body reacted--arching off the cot, pushing my hips closer to his finger, searching and searching for more friction.
"Oh," Ghost chuckled lowly, deep in his chest. "She's desperate."
Soap laughed lowly. "Better give her what she wants, then, L.T."
I whimpered audibly when Ghost pressed harder on my clit, circling it slowly, titillating me. Slowly and slowly, deeper circles until I was breathing harder, faster, arching my tits into Soap's waiting hands. Curling my toes against Ghost's back, feeling him bend forward until he replaced his thumb with his mouth.
The moan that broke free from my lips was almost pornographic. But the way Ghost was licking me, sucking me, both hands digging deep into the meat of my thighs--it was a pleasure I'd never felt before. It coursed through my veins, from the tips of my toes to my hairline, dragging goosebumps along my flesh, lighting the embers in my belly.
"That feel good, princess?" Soap whispered in my ear, a purr.
I couldn't form a coherent answer. Ghost was nipping and sucking on my clit, pressing a finger into my hole slowly, stretching me out.
"Look at you," Soap continued. I moaned in response, biting it back behind my lips. "You're already so soaked. So wet for us."
I gasped, arching into Ghost's mouth, feeling his tongue lap me up. He groaned against me, fucking me with his finger slowly, brushing against a spot in me that made my knees shake.
"She's getting there, L.T," Soap said through a kiss on my cheek, on my jaw, my neck, my shoulder.
How did he know?
I didn't have a second to ponder that thought. The pleasure of Ghost's tongue pressed flat on my clit, licking long, languid strokes sent another wave of fire washing through me.
"Look at this pretty hole," Ghost muttered, pulling back, leaving me raw and wanting, panting and whimpering against Soap's mouth.
Ghost pumped his finger, once, twice, three times in and out of me, watching me swallow it whole. I moaned, trying to picture his face, trying to soak up what he felt.
He pressed his thumb to my clit, slowly rubbing me, fucking me with his finger. I pressed my knees closed instinctively, but one of Ghost's big palms pulled my knee back open.
"Let me watch you, Laura," he rasped, and oh, my name on his lips was a sin.
He played with me like that, watching his finger fuck me. Watching his thumb circle my clit slowly. Watching my hips stutter, my mouth open in a moan, in a whimper. Watching my chest rise and fall, Soap pressing kisses on my cheeks, my mouth, my shoulders.
"Stop playing with your food, Ghost," Soap groaned. "She's shaking."
And I was, trembling against the cot, my hands raising to cover my own breasts.
Ghost chuckled. Mean.
But he replaced his thumb by the warmth of his mouth, his lips, his wet tongue. He replaced the circles with sucking, lapping, nipping, until a knot formed deep in my belly and my hips started to grind on his mouth of their own accord.
He kept fucking his finger into me, and when he added another, my head went haywire. I moaned out his name, like a prayer, the knot deepening in my belly. I reached up to grab Soap's hand, hearing him whisper dirty, dark nothings into my ear, but I didn't hear, I didn't care.
All that mattered was Ghost stretching me out with two fingers, his mouth and tongue sucking on my clit, lapping me up like a last meal.
"I can hear your cunt," Soap whispered in my ear. "You're so soaked, I can hear you, princess."
I bit my lip, moaning behind my teeth, squeezing his hand.
"Can you hear yourself?" Soap panted in my ear.
I could. Oh, God, yes I could.
"You should see the way you're desperately moving," he continued, biting my ear. "Letting Ghost finger-fuck that little hole, huh?"
Ghost pulled back, admiring his work. "She's swallowing my fingers like a good girl," he said, he voice wretched, roach. They shared a chuckle, while Ghost still pumped his digits in me, culling a pleasure in my core like never before. "She's letting me stretch her out. So tight, so wet."
His words, so dirty, so unlike him, were bringing me to the edge of insanity.
"Simon, please," I begged.
"Hold her down, Johnny," Ghost said nonchalantly.
Soap took both my wrists in one hand, holding them over my head. I was about to ask why, but I didn't even have the bandwidth to ponder why when Ghost added a third finger into my cunt.
My mouth opened, breath lodged in my lungs. He pumped slower, but still, deep and long strokes, stretching me out completely.
"Fucking hell," Ghost sighed, cooed. I could hear the sloppy sounds of my cunt sucking his fingers, and the mix of pain, of pleasure, of the slick I could feel coating his digits, made my blood sing.
"That's it," Soap whispered. "Relax, princess, shhh." He was petting my hair, kneading my tits, rubbing me until I'd adjusted to Ghost's fingers and he resumed his pace.
I was nearing my own end again, like in the showers, and I wanted that hot, intense pleasure again. I wanted to fling myself off the cliff.
Somehow, Ghost knew, pumping faster, rubbing that spot in me that made stars dance behind my lids. Replacing his tongue with his thumb to rub me faster, harder.
He kissed the inside of my thigh. "Come on, Laura," he grunted. "Cum for me. Cum for me and Johnny." He was panting, kissing my knee, and when he bit into the soft flesh on the inside of my thigh, I broke.
The knot snapped and warm, fuzzy pleasure flooded up my belly. I moaned Simon's name, Soap's. I shuddered against Ghost's hand, squeezing his fingers, gushing on his palm. I heard him swear, heard Soap whisper, "good girl," against my humid hairline.
I was left a twitching mess.
My heart hammered behind my ribs, my palms loosened out of Soap's grip, my arms flapping to my sides. I felt the blood coming back to my head, my lungs burning.
Ghost slipped his fingers out of me. "Fuck, Johnny, look at this perfect little hole."
I heard shuffling, Johnny walking, crouching in front of my bare pussy. I blushed, my cheeks so hot, so warm, I thought I was starting a fever.
I was still sensitive, overly so, when Soap brushed his hands on the inside of my thighs.
"Let me have a taste, sweetheart," Soap groaned, almost pleaded. I couldn't see him. Couldn't know he was already bent in front of me, when he pressed a small, chaste kiss to my clit.
I twitched, moaned pathetically.
"She's already so riled up," I heard Ghost say. Where was he? "She'll cum for us again so quick."
And he was right.
When Soap's kisses turned to long strokes of his tongue, I was already halfway there. I moaned quietly, exhausted, when he spread me open and sucked on my clit, lapping his tongue on me.
My toes were numb, my legs limp, when he plunged his own finger in my wet hole, moaning against me, pumping his finger and licking me to his own rhythm.
It wasn't long until I was trembling, moaning incoherently, begging him. My hands found his Mohawk, holding on, grinding against his mouth until I was cumming on his lips, muttering his name over and over again.
Johnny.
Johnny.
John.
When I was just a numb mess, Soap carefully replaced my panties over my pussy.
And then Ghost was touching me, his rough knuckles on each side of my ribs. Soap left me, cold and shivering.
The cot dipped under Ghost's weight as he bent forward, a knee between my limp knees. He kissed my belly, my sternum, until he was completely over me, a knee on the cot between my legs.
I reached up, touching his bare face. Feeling the stubble under my finger tips. Touching his eyes, his mouth--still wet. I wish I could see him. See what he's feeling, thinking.
"Little dove," he whispered, so low I barely heard him. I didn't know where Soap was, I couldn't feel him anywhere. But I didn't care. I reached up, slowly grasping Ghost's hair, and pulled him down.
I tasted myself on his lips, but it didn't matter. I wanted him close. I needed him close.
Soap too.
I kissed him fervently, parting my lips to let his tongue pet mine timidly. I arched into him, feeling his waist with my knees. He grunted into the kiss, pushing me deeper into the cot.
And then pulled back, gently sitting me up.
Dizzy, I asked, "Soap?" My voice was squeaky, broken.
"Right here, pumpkin," came his soothing, low voice, and he grabbed my jaw, pulling my face up to kiss me. In the dark, behind the blindfold.
He drank me in, kissing me hard, parting my lips forcefully.
And just like Ghost, he pulled back gently. He dragged my bra straps back up, rearranged my bra so I was covered. I felt another pair of hands on my shoulders, and Ghost helped me back into my shirt.
"Looks like we'll be here a while," Ghost said. I was still blindfolded, but I looked up, following his voice. "Let's get some rest, yeah?"
I nodded, feeling his hand wrap around mine. When I got up, Soap's finger grazed my waist, and I realized I wasn't wearing any pants.
But I didn't care. I was so exhausted, so drained from cumming, from having my heart beat so fast for these two men, from breathing so hard I thought my lungs would burst.
The prospect of sleep sounded amazing to my empty, exhausted little head.
"Here," Ghost said. "Lie down." I got to my knees, on the floor, and then felt his hands on my waist, guiding me until I was lying between his legs, back against his chest.
My whole body relaxed instantly, and I curled up against him.
Cantankerous
AN: So some of yall ( namely @jana-jaeynneee @delicateblues @blondegirlie )requested a part two to THIS and I mean, I must oblige the populace. So here's another brain rot of Billy Butcher.
This can be read as a sequel to THIS or as a oneshot either way. Y'all ready for some more madness?
WARNINGS: SMUT SMUT SMUT, breath play, kink size, age-gap if you squint.
MINORS DNI BELOW THE CUT
The safehouse was so quiet you could've heard a mouse walk the entire length of the kitchen. But no one was here. It was just you and the silence and the loudly walking mouse that was meandering across the makeshift living room. Oh and Butcher - Billy - whatever. But he was snoring like a cow in heat on the couch, the tiny TV droning and casting a greyish blue glow onto his sleeping features.
When you'd found him there, you'd almost padded back to your little corner and called it a night. But a growl in your tummy made you ache for something to nibble on. And now that the team was basically under government watch and the FBI's Most Wanted list, it's not like Frenchie was stocking the fridge with nutrient dense foods.
It was mostly bread, peanut butter, bananas or avocados (depending on which ones came on special first), and a few cold cuts he could swipe.
But this time, as you pulled the mini fridge open, you wanted to smack Frenchie on the shaved side of his idiot head. There was nothing but one darkening banana and a Doctor Pepper in there.
"Stupid," you mumbled, grasping onto the banana.
"You should have your head checked out, hun."
You rolled your eyes, groaning inwardly as you turned to the man sitting up on the couch like a revenant. He turned his head, snuggled his chin onto the back of the couch, and pouted at you.
"Why?" you asked, closing the fridge door with a bang.
He lifted one dark brow. "Because you're over there calling a 'fridgerator stupid."
You leaned back against the counter and crossed your ankles. "Who says I called the fridge stupid?"
He shrugged. "Who knows why you women do them things that you do." And just as you were about to tell him where he could shove his opinion, he sighed and asked, "Fancy a midnight nibble, yeah?"
You recoiled, swallowing your retort before showing him the banana from across the room. "There's only one thing left to eat before God knows when."
He made a face, more like a grimace, somewhere between pain and resolution. "Have it," he said, waving you away.
Ever since that night at the Seducer's mansion, it's like everything had changed for you while not the slightest thing had shifted for Butcher - Billy.
It's like he hadn't culled two orgasms from you.
It's like he hadn't told you those things that were absolutely not lies.
He'd barely talked to you since, waltzing into the next month as if you were just a decoration hung on the wall that you caught him looking at once in a while, but otherwise, he resorted to silence with you.
He never asked you anything. He never answered your questions. Even when it was just the two of you at the safehouse, like tonight, he'd knock out on the couch after a few beers and lull you to sleep with the sound of his snoring.
This was the first time in 4 weeks he'd spoken a direct word at you.
"I could split it," you said, gesturing to the banana.
He shook his head, raked a hand over the left side of his face. "Did I ever tell you my series of fun facts?" he asked, looking at the TV so all you could see was the back of his head.
You'd heard him have a shower an hour ago, cursing at the cold water and the lack of proper space for his abnormally large body.
Whenever the boys took a shower, in that cramped, open space beside the kitchen, you made it your mission to count how many cracks there were in the wall. Aside from the safehouse having no proper bathroom utilities, the "shower" had no curtain. It was just a shower head off the wall with a handle to open it.
So when you'd heard the shower head squeal to life an hour ago, you'd turned in your little cot and pretended that you weren't jealous of that water. Of the droplets running between his pecks, gliding down his tummy, running along the small hairs on his arms. Of the water that caressed the planes of his face, that rushed into his hair, that tumbled along the hard ridges of his back.
It had been insanely hard not to get lost in those thoughts. You were trying to forget Billy Butcher, to classify him as your leader instead of as the recipient of your antiquated school-girl crush. You knew Billy didn't think that way of you, you were certain. All those things that he told you while he'd been two knuckles deep in your cunt, even if they weren't lies, had to have been in the heat of the moment.
You thought better of Billy Butcher--higher. There was no way a man of his age, his experience, would be as cliché as to want to fuck his twenty-something coworker.
"Your series of fun facts?" you asked back, throwing those thoughts back into your head, in a drawer so deep, locked away, so forgotten you'd never risk finding it again.
He snorted. "Sounds nerdy, I know, you'll love it." He patted the side of the couch next to him, a dull invitation.
Truth is, even if you had tried to ignore him as well, a part of you had missed being close to him. He was a genuinely nice and funny human being, when he wasn't chopping arms off or punching people in the head.
Sometimes, when it was just the two of you - well, before the whole Seducer incident - he could be wholeheartedly nice to you. He'd made you a sandwich once when a pad fell out of your toiletries bag and he so eloquently yelled to everyone in the room that you were on the rag. He'd cut your hair--surprisingly well--when you had the remains of the mailman's brains gathered in chunks in your hair.
So that pat on the couch was like an old reminder of the relationship you'd had with him before...well before everything.
You padded towards him, bare feet on the cold cement. He looked at you over his shoulder, taking in the long pajama pants, the long t-shirt.
When you sat dow beside him, sinking into the couch, you took a glance at him. He was still dressed in his black jeans but he'd switched his open blouse for a long-sleeve black sweater that hugged onto his shoulders like a glove.
"They say," he started, smiling, raising a finger as if he was in deep thought. "That the same bacteria found in yogurt can be found in a blue whale's vagina."
You glazed your eyes. "I don't know why I expected anything less," you groaned.
He chuckled. "Get this, right," he continued, shuffling on the couch to get more comfortable. "Crocodiles mate by like twisting 'round each other, like some sort of licorice, and then the male uncovers his hidden penis like a gun and shoots up the female."
You leaned your head back onto the couch and groaned again. "Are these fun facts going to serve me in real life?"
He leaned forward, as if to tell you a juicy secret, his weight dipping the couch so your shoulder slid an inch closer to him. "Sometimes, male elephants use their giant dicks as a fifth leg."
That made you smile and burst into giggles. "Why would that be of any service to them at all?" you chuckled, raising your head to meet his eyes.
He shrugged, grimaced at you. "Maybe they can run faster," he offered.
"Doubt it."
"Oi, maybe they use it as a weapon of some sorts."
"What, like a sword?"
"Dunno, I'm not the one with a giant fifth leg."
You started laughing, a real laugh that tore at your gut and made you throw your head back. Of everything Butcher was, he was a walking comedian. Sure, it enclosed a multitude of unhealed trauma, but the things he could pull out of his magic hat could be the difference between a dreadful nightmare or a peaceful sleep. And that's always something you'd appreciated from him.
"I wanna ask you somethin', little Truthteller," he asked, suddenly somber, as if the lights in his head had dimmed all at once.
The little nickname, the pet name, drew the breath from your lungs and swiped the smile off your face, bringing you back the that box beneath the floor. The enclosed space where it was just you and him, and you and his breathing, his kisses, his caresses.
The grip you had on the banana tightened.
"First of all," he sighed, cocking his head to look at you. "Are you going to eat that fucking banana or keep teasing me?"
"Here!" you said, smiling, handing him the fruit. "I said take it if you're hungry."
He swiped it from you, grazing his fingers against your knuckles. "Thanks," he mumbled, peeling it and wolfing it down in three bites.
Well, you thought. There goes my midnight snack.
"Are you..." he trailed off, swallowing the last of his banana before dumping the peel on the coffee table. "Are you angry with me or something or the other?"
You frowned, taken aback. If anything, you'd thought he was mad at you for something or the other.
"Don't tell me you're that boomer who assumes every woman is mad at something," you grumbled, crossing your arms.
His eyes dipped to your chest for a fraction of a second, so quickly that you'd have missed it had you blinked. The action of crossing your arms had pushed your breasts together, making it obvious that you weren't wearing a bra.
Something dark and slow, like molasses, stirred in your belly.
"First thing's first, young lady, I'm not a boomer," he corrected, grabbing your wrist, "and secondly, please don't push up those pretty tits in my face unless you're willing to suffer the consequences," and he dropped your arm.
You gulped, feeling heat spread deep in your belly, across your chest, and into your head.
Your heartbeat picked up, like a tiny little drummer boy was kicking to life inside you.
He leaned back, dropping your wrist like nothing happened, and you hated him for it.
"I'm not angry," you answered decidedly. "I'm just... I just don't know how to behave around you."
He huffed, then turned to you and waved you over, making his chest appear like the most comfortable pillow.
You swallowed.
"Come on," he guffawed, gesturing to you again. "I want to tell you somethin' and I'm afraid that cunt Frenchie bugged up this dump."
You blinked, feeling the heat crawl up your cheeks like slow melting butter. But then you found yourself moving forward, crawling and closing the small space between the both of you until you were kneeling beside him.
He laughed silently, the dimples in his cheeks creasing. From up close, you could see the lines beside his eyes, the deep green of his irises, the way his black hair curled at the tip slightly.
He watched you watching him, following your gaze. You'd never seen each other this close before. The last time you'd been close enough to feel his breath on your cheeks, it had been pitch black.
"If you're refferin' to the last time we went on a mission alone," he said, his voice a few octaves lower, graver, raspier--as if he was straining against himself. "I'm not angry."
You nodded, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. You felt his finger press under your chin, dragging your eyes back to his. They were kind, downturned as if he was concerned. "I didn't mean to force you into anythin'," he murmured, watching as you opened your mouth.
"You didn't," you answered quickly. "It was hurting so bad," you continued, pressing your hands together, held like a prayer against your thighs. "I think I would've died without you."
He smiled, pressing his thumb to your bottom lip, like he'd done under the floor.
"Come," he instructed, grabbing you by the biceps and hauling you over his lap, so your bum was pressed right on his crotch, your shoulder nuzzled against his chest. Even sitting, he was so much bigger and taller than you, that you felt like a tiny rock in his hand.
He was so warm, smelling of something woodsy, something smokey--a scent so unique to him it made the volley of butterflies in your tummy take flight across your chest.
He pressed a big, warm hand against one of your thighs and flattened your knees, his breath hitching over your head. Your heart hammered, a deep throb against your throat.
"Did you like it?" he asked slowly, pressing deep circles into the inside of your left thigh.
You pressed your lips together, feeling his other hand cradle you against his chest. "It was..." you swallowed thickly.
He pinched the sensitive skin that he was caressing, the ache swarming your head, even through the layer of your pajama pants. "Don't be embarrassed," he cooed, leaning his nose against your temple.
"Butcher, I-"
"Billy," he interrupted, grabbing your chin and lifting your head up to meet your gaze. You gasped, meeting his eyes with a sweet-sour feeling in your belly. "Love, it's always Billy for you." He looked at your mouth, trailing his finger down the column of your throat before lacing his fingers around your neck like a pretty little necklace.
"You look so tiny like this," he mumbled and you felt him then, hard and warm against your bum, before he leaned over and ravaged your mouth, kissing you like you were the imaginary oasis in a desert and he was a man parched dry.
He groaned against your mouth, grasping at your throat like a lifeline, pressing until air was taken from you and you keened against him, both of your hands reaching for his arm, digging into the chiseled skin.
"Billy," you said, breathless, your lips bruised from his kisses, his teeth nipping at your mouth like a predator.
"Yes, love?" he mumbled, out of his mind, his fingers closing around your neck like a noose until you choked against his mouth. He swallowed your sounds, groaning against you. "Can't breathe?" he mocked, loosening his fingers ever so slightly and giving you just a sliver of air to suck onto as you closed your eyes. The blood rushed out of your head and back into your body, pounding in your chest, sliding slowly down your tummy and settling into your cunt like a heavy, hard drum beat.
"Billy, I'm-"
He cut you off with a kiss, squeezing your neck, letting you choke against his mouth until he gave you a few licks of air. He enjoyed toying with you and you let him, sucking onto the air he gave you, kissing him, feeling as lightheaded as a balloon.
When your lips were red and swollen, your eyes glazed, and your breath hard and fast, he finally took his hands from your neck, kissing your cheeks and your eyelids. "You did so good f'me," he panted, lazily tracing circles on your neck, watching as you heaved in breath after breath.
Somewhere, you knew your panties were slick.
He kissed your temple. "Breathing when I allow you," he groaned, kissing your cheek. "And now look at ya, pretty head empty, eh?" You knew he was taunting you but all you could do was focus on your breathing, getting as much air in as to not pass out on his lap.
"I'm so...tired," you moaned, reaching up to kiss him, but he grabbed onto your face, dwarfing your head in his big hands, and smiled down at your sleepy little eyes.
"But I've got you right where I want you," he cooed, kissing your other cheek. "Get on your knees for me, yeah?" he whispered, and you would do anything for him in that moment, light-headed, dazed, panties wet, soaked as you fell to your knees before him.
You looked up at him from between his spread thighs. "God," he groaned, pressing his thumb to your fat bottom lip. "Look at you."
You swallowed hard when he unbuttoned his jeans, his eyes like magnets to your every movement. He took himself out of his pants, root and stem, groaning and leaning forward to caress your cheek, his eyes serious all of a sudden. "Take your time, little Truthteller, I want to see every second of this."
You looked up at him, brows upturned, nodding. As he leaned back, you got a good look at him; he was big, just like the rest of him, angry red tip leaking precum already.
Your empty little head just wanted to please him, like he'd done to you beneath the floorboards of the Seducer's mansion, but a nervousness kicked at your belly.
Hesitantly, you scooted closer, wrapping your hand around his length, the skin scorching hot, listening to him sigh and melt into the couch.
You leaned forward, giving his tip little kitten licks until you pressed the entire tip of him against your warm tongue, wrapping your lips around him.
"Fuck," he whispered, one hand gathering your hair, lifting it away from your face so he could see you. "I'm not going to last long, little Truthteller."
You wondered, somewhere where your mind wasn't so empty, if he'd been holding out for you, keeping himself from jerking off because he wanted to do it with you. If he'd been thinking of it for so long that just the warmth and wetness of your tongue was enough to rip him asunder.
You took him passed your lips, wetting him with your tongue, then bobbing back up to suckle on his tip until you'd wet him enough to start a slow rhythm.
He helped you speed things up to his desired rhythm by pulling and pushing slightly on your hair. You used one hand for the rest of him you couldn't take and the other on the inside of his jean-clad leg for support.
"God, you feel so fuckin' good, love," he slurred, his accent even thicker as you sucked him, wet him with your tongue, hollowing in your cheeks to treat him like your own little popsicle. "You can take a bit more love," he cooed, pulling on your hair, sliding himself out of your mouth with a wet pop.
You gasped, swallowing thickly, watching him watch you with hungry, deep eyes. At your slick red lips and your heaving chest and the way your eyes were still glazed over.
He leaned him, pressing a hard kiss to your mouth, his free hand caressing your warm cheek. "Yeah, a bit more?" he taunted, kissing and kissing and kissing you until you were drunk on his lips.
He leaned back and you leaned with him, taking him into your mouth again, feeling that sweet-sour wave wash in your belly when he groaned out your name.
You pressed him further in your throat, squeezing your eyes shut, bobbing him into your mouth further and further until your air supply was cut and you gagged on him slightly. Embarrassed, you slipped him out of your mouth, covering your lips as you breathed in much-needed air.
He smiled, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss on your cheek. "Too big for you, love?" he murmured, his voice laced with thick desire, watching your watery eyes widen. He was merciless. He was enjoying the taunt. He was enjoying the way you were so pliable to his demands. "Go slower, yeah, relax your throat." He mumbled those words against your cheek, inhaling you, before returning to his leaned-back position.
You swallowed determinedly, taking him into your mouth again, the hand in your hair squeezing as you started to bob your head again.
"Right there," he encouraged.
You did as he directed, slowly easing down on him, wetting him, sliding him against your tongue and relaxing your throat until the tip of his cock slid in there easily.
"Yes, right there, little Truthteller," he whispered.
Your eyes watered but you kept going, spurred by his praises until you had him almost all the way in your mouth. You kept sliding him in and out, as far as you could, feeling his tip slide down your throat further and further each time you slid your head back down.
"That's a good girl," he continued, breathless, voice lost. "Further, yeah, baby?" You knew he was spurred on by the moment so you tried, gulping him all down until your eyes blurred with tears and your throat spasmed around him. He squeezed your hair, groaning, holding you there until he was cumming inside your mouth, grunting, his hips spasming up, as if to fuck your mouth.
You slid him out slow, swallowing his release, breathing in deeply, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.
When you looked up, he was panting, head slanted back on the couch, chest heaving.
"Gods, little Truthteller," he groaned, leaning forward to wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes with his thumb. "You did so, so good for me, yeah?"
He kissed your numb lips, caressing your cheeks, pulling you back up on the couch. He tucked himself back into his jeans before bringing you close to him, snuggling your empty little dumb head against his chest.
You were cradled in his arms like a baby and when you looked up, you saw how sated he was, content and happy. He pet your hair, soothed the back of his knuckles on your cheek.
Then he smiled and leaned in, whispered in your ear, "Mine."
Insatiable
AN: No one asked for this but the Butcher brain rot is crazy and i can't stop myself. Alas, I couldn't resist so welcome to the madness. Anyway, I went insane and absolutely wrote a devoted piece to this man. Jesus help me.
Warnings: dub-con (use of sex pollen-ish mind control), smut, fingering, language, and Butcher is a warning in and of itself.
MINORS DNI Below the cut
"I'm not wearing any underwear."
The admonition echoed in the habitat of Butcher's Cadillac like a bird's call. Even the sound of leather on leather, as the man sitting beside you slowly turned to examine you, wasn't loud enough to get the stupid ringing out of your head.
This had all started off like a bad scab you thought was healed but wasn't, and now it was bleeding all over your favorite pink pull.
Hughie and MM had uncovered a rightful piece of Temp V hideout; a Supe's mansion on the Upper East Side who, just happened, to be throwing one of his renowned "XXXchange" parties for Supes and their pets (this was how it was described on the e-vite MM hacked).
This Supe, still unknown to everyone because he kept the mansion under a random woman's name, was supposedly a Seven-in-the-making, as Hughie put it. If he could prove himself, he was next in line for a comfy beige seat in the Tower. So hence, him keeping and distributing Temp V to teens and young adults who didn't know any better.
So what had been Hughie's grand ol' plan? Bring you in. As the newest Supe member of The Boys, no one had yet seen your face. No one even knew of you. You were a low-level "barely considerable" Supe...as Butcher had put it the first time he blew the hinges off your front door.
Your power wasn't really a - well, a power at all. It was mostly an advancement, an intellectual add-on, or a sixth sense. You could read lies. More coherently, because someone with a beard and a giant stick up his ass didn't understand correctly--you could tell when someone was lying.
You weren't really an attribute to the team when it came to brute force. You left that up to Annie and Kimiko. But you had your perks, and since you were still under Vought's radar, you could slip through the cracks and get intel for the Boys.
Now why was Butcher with you, the most notorious Boys' member? Well, one might say he was eager to see your 2-hour fight training in practice, but really, it was because he "didn't trust a dumb twat with highly sensitive information and tech". His words.
So he'd garnished a Tommy Bahama blouse with pink flamingoes and palm trees and a matching set of swim shorts, sunglasses, and a stupid bright pink bucket hat that was way too small for his big ass head.
And now here both of y'all were, headed to the Upper East Side, dressed like a hooker and a pimp. Annie had insisted on this get up, a tiny, tiny pink skirt, a white bikini top, and a pink cover up with flip flops to finish off this fucking look. Because apparently, no one would let you in if you weren't A) a Supe and B) not dressed like a House Bunny.
"So you're tellin' me," Butcher drawled as the New York skyline darkened, "that your bare pussy is suction-cupping my leather seats?"
You crossed your arms. "I'm sitting at an angle."
Butcher slapped the wheel. "You should've told me earlier!" he laughed. You frowned in return when he swivelled that giant head of his towards you. "Come now, if you're not wearing panties, why should I, eh?"
"You wear panties?"
He hummed, regaining control of the road as the car slipped passed the last townhouse to enter Mansion Ville.
"I like you, little Truthteller," he mumbled to himself. "Thought you were a bit worthless at first, but you might just prove yourself tonight!"
You didn't dare answer the last bit, instead focusing on the details Annie and Hughie gave you before you flip-flopped your way into Butcher's passenger seat (and did absolutely not suction-cup his leather seats).
The idea was to go in and place a few bugs in and around the mansion in key locations. You could try to figure out who the Supe was or even find out where he stashed his V, but it didn't matter. The Boys would find out over the bugs.
The mansion Butcher parked the Caddie in front of was like a cookie-cutter version of the 90s PlayBoy mansion.
"Alright, love," Butcher sighed, killing the engine and stepping out, rounding the nose of the car to open the door for you. "Give 'em a nice peek of that minge, eh?"
You blushed from head to toe, a torment of fire assaulting your skin until Butcher caught on and chuckled low in his chest, helping you step out the car with his hand.
You still hadn't gotten used to the crass words that could tumble out of his mouth like vomit.
He guided you to the entrance, where a man dressed in black boxers and a black neck tie asked for your invite number, which you recited from the one Hughie gave you.
Then he asked, "And which is Supe and which is pet?"
You blushed even hotter. "Um." Your throat got sticky and dry all at once. "I'm the Supe and he's my... um, he's my-"
"Her pet," Butcher interrupted with a wide smile, the sunglasses hiding the glint in his eye that was surely showing. That ridiculous bucket hat made him look almost two heads taller than you as he bent down to whisper in your ear, "bark, bark."
You groaned inwardly as you lead him into the foyer, where a sprawling staircase lead to a mezzanine and a mahogany banister and a wide archway gave way to a mess of bodies in the living room.
"Oh my God," you mumbled, turning away from the onslaught of legs and arms and slithering bodies like a pile of snakes.
"Oh, nuh-uh," Butcher chuckled, grabbing you by the shoulders, steering you right into the mass of party-goers, moaning and groaning and thrusting into one another or bouncing on top of each other like mad dogs. "If you want to play the part, you have to look the part." His mouth was right next to your ear, and for some reason, the breath caressing your skin sent a slowly gliding shiver down your spine.
Why was this happening?
You felt the flesh melt where his fingers lay, clutching at your shoulders, pulling your coverup off of you.
"Butcher," you said, stopping his hand.
He shook his head. "Show them what you got, mama," he whispered again, the rough of his beard tracing against your cheek. He scooped the coverup off your shoulders and threw it across the room, leaving you in your bikini top.
Butcher had never seen you so exposed before. You'd always worn pants and t-shirts around the safe house, so watching all that bare skin available to his hungry eyes flipped a switch in his head.
A woman, tall and elegant, cream skin and sultry black eyes, approached you before Butcher could do something stupid. He straightened up, lifting the sunglasses from his nose.
"Miss, look at you," he cooed.
Miss was naked. Someone had left a bite mark on her right breast, just above her peaked nipple. She was so long-limbed and beautiful, and the sight of her naked body made you turn away instinctively.
"I like you," she said, voice low and husky, like a purr.
"I like you too, sweetheart," Butcher answered, the heat of his body completely leaving you as he zeroed in all his attention on the naked, wanting lady before you.
She huffed. "You're great too," she answered, and when you turned, her lascivious brown eyes were settled on you. "But it's her that I want."
Butcher gasped and then erupted in laughter, taking the bucket hat off his head and putting it to his heart. "Woah, I never imagined I'd see this in my lifetime."
The other woman smiled slowly and you gulped. She was pretty, but she was also not part of the mission.
So you back-peddled.
You put a delicate hand to Butcher's arm, digging your nails into his skin, and put on a lovely, sweet smile for the offering girl. "That's nice of you," you said, voice sultry like a wet candy cane. "But we're more interested in watching." As you said this, you dropped into your act as best you could, mustering up the strength not to blush but to play the part of the sex-obsessed Supe.
She brightened up at this, gesturing to Butcher. "Well I could fuck him while you watch," she suggested.
Butcher's body tensed up against you and he turned to you. "Please say yes," he mumbled.
You smiled, throwing him a glance. "Both of us are watchers," you corrected, watching as she bowed her head, a lustrous gleam in her eye.
"It would've been a pleasure," she said before walking away.
When she was climbing onto another woman's lap, Butcher grabbed your bicep and brought you into a corner, sheltered in the dim lighting of the room, smothered under the moans and groans and the sloppy sounds of...intercourse.
"You were this close to fulfilling a fantasy of mine," he groaned, and when you looked up, he looked more angry than turned on.
"We're not here so I can watch you have sex with a woman, asshole!" you gritted between your teeth. ''We're here to plant bugs and find some V."
He huffed, rearranging his Tommy Bahama. "I'm obeying just because you're wearing this outfit," he grumbled, following you as you led them into the next room.
A kitchen, stock full with boxes of canned beverages and food platters.
"Okay, here." You pointed to the dinner table in the adjacent room, a teakwood marvel that surely housed a few meetings or two.
Butcher expertly placed a bug under the table.
You meandered safely through the house, planting bugs in various living rooms, meeting rooms, and spare bedrooms. Whenever some couple or lone masturbator dedicated their attention to you both, you pretended to watch, Butcher enlacing you in his arms.
It's only then you noticed how tall, how big this man was. He was easily dwarfing you by just standing there, your head against his chest, his fingers drawing lazy circles against your exposed spine.
When the onlookers would pass, he'd chuckle as you pushed him away like he was a booger wall.
But the more you traveled in the house, the more people seemed to stare, wanting, questioning. So you ended up holding Butcher's hand, at his command: "Wouldn't want the lovely ladies stealing you away, eh?"
And hand holding turned into his arm around your shoulders, the tip of his very long fingers ghosting your breast.
"Let's go upstairs," he whispered in your ear once he'd bugged up the toilet.
"Ew, no."
He sucked his teeth. "I mean," he gritted, pushing you up against a wall when a man with a considerably large strap on made his way towards you. Butcher bent down, squeezing the breath from your lungs as he grazed his mouth on your bare shoulder. He pressed a featherlight kiss, all while observing the passing man, dragging his lips up to your ear. "We should go bug up the rooms, eh? Maybe see if we can find this cunt's V supply?"
You nodded, a wicked shiver pebbling your flesh.
Butcher blew cold breath onto the thin line of saliva he'd left on your skin. "Cold?"
You swallowed hard. "Let's just go."
He chuckled as you grabebd his hand and led him back to the stairs, galloping up to the second floor.
Truth is, you'd never imagined Butcher like this. He was so arrogant and he loved to make people jump out of their skins by how uncomfortable they were with him, but you'd chopped it up to the old chip on the block; Butcher pushing people away to keep himself safe.
So when the Boys had initiated you, you'd figured it'd be best to steer clear from this tyrant of a man. He was way older than you anyway, and he was always calling you every name in the book except your government given one. And he was always dismissing your ideas, so you'd always assumed he had an image of an immature little girl in his head.
But he'd dreamed of you more times than he cared to count. The messed up parts of his brain, where most of it was left behind in his old life, conjured up hauntings of you every night. Of those soft, plump lips whenever you'd eat cherries. Of your legs in your pajama shorts and your giggle when Kimiko signed something stupid. Of that perfect little body of yours.
"Okay, in here." You interrupted his chain of thought, the one that was going to crash into a puddle brains that would eventually leak out of his ear.
You lead him into a room, which turned out to be some kind of antechamber with a hearth and a giant portrait of a small, bald man.
"He looks like a mouse," you muttered.
But Butcher froze, tearing his hand away from yours. "Oh, fuck me," he groaned, putting his sunglasses and hat onto the low table. "That's the fucking Seducer."
Your skin crawled. You turned, examined Butcher's expression as he leaned against the far wall. "This cum guzzler is the one trafficking V?" he thought to himself, just as you asked, "who's the Seducer?"
Butcher turned to examine you across the room, lit by a few lights in the sconces. "He's the world's number 1 date raper," he answered, frowning. "This guy can intoxicate the female species into a mad heat, like dogs."
"What?" You frowned.
Butcher walked a bit closer, turning his head to watch you out of one eye, like a bird. "Yeah, he secrets this hormone on a whim and boom, bitches go mad for his dick."
"Oh." You swallowed, turned to push the handle of another door, leading to a darkened room fit for a king. "I think this is his room."
Butcher muttered behind you, "Lucky guy if you ask me."
"Trouble getting women, Butcher?" you asked absentmindedly as you entered the dark room, lights from the lawn outside filtering milky-white through the windows, illuminating your path like a trail of snow.
Butcher followed, closing the door behind you. "Not really," he answered, immediately pulling cubbards and drawers open. "The ladies love me."
"Oh, yeah I bet," you muttered, pulling open the wardrobe. A loose floorboard creaked loudly and you froze, turning to meet Butcher's eye.
He scrambled to where you stood, pressing on the floor and repeating the awful creaking sound.
"Pants jizzer must be keeping the V under his floor," he mumbled, pressing until at least 6 floorboards rose from the ground on one end, a whole door to the underside of the Seducer's floor.
"Bingo," you giggled, helping Butcher pull the damn thing open. But there was nothing there, only an empty black space that could've fit maybe two people, gaping at you like a dark maw. "He must have transfered them," you whispered.
"Or he's trafficking other things," Butcher replied darkly.
Just as you were about to close the floorboards, a loud thud rang out in the antechamber. You froze, listening, until a feminine giggle made you and Butcher lock eyes.
"Get in," he whispered, motioning to the black pit under your knees.
"In here!?" you whispered tightly.
Whoever was on the other side was making their way towards the room, painstakingly, and this was not the place you and Butcher needed to be found.
"Yes, fuck, get in," he insisted, and your heart thudded so loudly, so harshly against your throat you thought it would burst right out through your chest.
Shaking, you got into the little space, falling onto your back because you couldn't see where this thing ended. As soon as you got your hair out of your eyes, Butcher was tumbling onto you, closing the floorboards a millisecond before the bedroom door burst open.
Sound was immediately muffled, like being underwater, and the only thing you could hear was your breathing. Butcher's breathing over you. Your heart in your throat, nauseating you, the adrenaline rushing like a flood in your veins.
Butcher's chest heaving against yours, the entire length of him pressed up on you like a heavy blanket.
"Get off," you whispered, feeling the heat of his forearm next to your head.
"There's no space," he grumbled, his voice catching on your cheek, your neck, as he tried to maneuver himself every which way that meant he wasn't pressed up on you, but he was just so damn big, like hiding with a grizzly bear, that whenever he tried to move, he just ended up being half on and half off you.
"Fuck it," he grumbled, pressing one hand under your thigh, wrenching a gasp from your throat as he placed himself comfortably between your legs.
The pressure of him on your bare bottom half made you freeze, heart hammering like an angry drum against your ribcage. The way you were positioned, thighs wide open, knees bent each side of his waist, made the skimpy little skirt bundle up onto your tummy, leaving you completely bare.
"Hush up, little thing," Butcher whispered in your ear, holding himself up on his forearms as not to crush the breath out of you. But his voice was wretched, pulled and tight, no doubt reacting to the heat he could feel through the thin fabric of his swim shorts.
The noise overhead intensified; a moan, a few garbled words, thudding.
"They're going to do it while he lie here," you whispered, hands balled up by your sides.
Butcher chuckled silently, breath fanning your neck. "So we really are voyeurs."
You smiled, holding back a giggle until a heavy thud caught your attention and the voices suddenly got a bit clearer. They were right over you.
A woman's voice floated through. "How ever I can serve you, Seducer."
The last word made your insides coil in fear. It looked like this woman was answering a command from the Seducer himself, the man who owned this house, who trafficked all the V and worked with Vought.
"Fuck," Butcher muttered. "This is worse than I thought."
"Why?" you asked silently, your fingers trembling against your thighs.
You felt him bend forward, his body tight like a rod. "This is going to hurt, love."
And just as you were about to ask what he was about to do, a soft pang echoed in your lower belly, like someone had tied a rope to your bellybutton and pulled. You squirmed, the thudding overhead leading back to the bed.
The pulling again, making you heave in a breath, squeeze your eyes shut. "No, no, no," you muttered, feeling an ache build between your legs, a force pull through your veins like molten honey.
The Seducer was using his power. And it wasn't just affecting the woman he was with... it was starting to affect you.
You felt yourself clench on nothing but air when the ache throbbed against your clit, like an invisible vacuum seal had closed over it, and you lifted your hips off the floor slightly.
Butcher immediately grabbed your hip, bringing you back down forcibly, sending a new wave of heat, of ache, of hurt through your body just at the touch of his bare fingers on your bare hip.
"Don't," he breathed, his word clipped. "Don't do that."
He could feel the heat of you through his shorts, just how impossibly hot you were, probably dripping from the Seducer's power, and the little control he exhibited around you was pulling quite taut.
"It hurts, Butcher," you gritted through your teeth, hands settling on his shoulders for support as another wave of need, of painful, painful need, throbbed through your body like a pulsing nuclear explosion. Your legs tightened around his waist, nails digging into the fabric of his Tommy Bahama. "Make it stop," you pleaded, heaving, throwing your head back, bucking your hips to get the pain to stop. Just stop.
Butcher huffed, cradling your face, his insides in turmoil with his brain. God had given him such a gift right now, a chance to take you, mark you as his, finally fuck that perfect little body--and he didn't know if he was man enough to stop himself.
You groaned in pain, subconsciously grinding your bare pussy against his thigh, searching for any kind of friction, of relief. Your skin was so hot, sweat beading your forehead as you braced through another wave of this unknown ache, throbbing relentlessly against your clit, deep inside you, just grazing your g-spot.
Your fingers balled into fists against his shirt, your face finding his chest, and you sobbed, "Make it stop, Butcher, please, it hurts."
You weren't aware that your hips had started grinding against his thigh, the knee he'd placed between your legs for leverage. And just the fact that he could feel his shorts getting soaked had him straining against the stitches of his sanity.
"There's only one way," he breathed against your ear. You sobbed, heaving, breathing raggedly, grinding so hard on his knee it was almost pathetic. "Are you sure you want to try?" he asked, voice trembling.
You sniffed, hung onto his neck for dear life. "Please, anything, this is--ah--this is unbearable."
He bent his head, mumbled for God to forgive him, and then pressed a deep, hard kiss on your lips, pressing you back into the floor completely. Somewhere above him, he heard a woman moan loudly, but the only thing that registered to him was the way you clung to him like a pawing animal.
A strangled moan, quiet and restrained, left your throat, caught behind your teeth as he ravaged your mouth.
"N-no," you mumbled. "No."
He pulled away, kissing your jaw, your neck until your were humping his thigh like a woman gone mad.
"This the only way, little Truthteller," he murmured in your ear, dragging his knee away and feeling your entire body go stiff against him.
A whine, like delicious music, lifted to his ear and he groaned inwardly. He had to convince himself he was doing it for you, but half of him was delighted at the idea of finally having you. Like a meal he'd been mouth-watering over for some time, and now it was fresh and warm right in front of him.
"I need," you muttered, groaning through another wave of the Seducer's power, your hips bucking into nothing. "I need..."
"You need to cum, little dove," Butcher whispered, caressing the side of your face and you shook your head.
"No."
"Yes, love," he muttered, tracing the line of your neck, down your chest until he softly cupped your breast.
A quiet moan rippled along your throat like a symphony to his ears. He played with your hard nipple through the fabric until he pushed it aside and replaced his thumb with the warmth of his mouth.
"Fuck," you whispered, pushing against his shoulders. "This is wrong." Your voice was so thin.
Butcher lapped at your nipple like an ice cream cone. "Want me to do this to your pretty little pussy?" he mumbled, and the crass words sent a hot wave of need pulsing painfully between your legs.
His other hand skimmed down your side, over the swell of your hip, and down to where you needed him most.
When he swiped a slow finger across your soaked folds, the grunt that left him was purely predatory. "You're so fucking wet," he whispered, to the accompanying sound of your panting. He brushed his thumb across your clit, holding you down as you jolted, flicking his tongue against your nipple.
"Butcher, please," you begged.
"Billy, love," he whispered, raising his head to kiss the corner of your mouth, brushing his thumb against your clit once more to capture your gasp in his kiss. "Call me Billy."
You gripped onto his shoulders, feeling the wide, powerful muscle of his right hand playing with you.
He pressed three fingers flat against you and you bucked, searching for more, as he circled slowly, starting you off.
"Say it," he commanded quietly, circling your clit faster.
"Billy," it came out as a whine and he groaned lowly, capturing your lips and kissing down your throat. The way his fingers played you like a harp wrenched a pornographic moan from your throat and immediately, Billy put a hand over your mouth, the skin between his thumb and forefinger snug under your nose.
"Quiet for me, little Truthteller," he whispered.
He moved his fingers to your entrance and slipped one in so easily it was almost embarrassing. He cooed at you, gliding his finger in and out so slowly it was almost arrogant. "So fucking wet, this perfect little hole."
You keened, squeezing your eyes shut at his crude words, searching for more friction until the heel of his hand pressed snuggly against your clit.
Your hips moved on their own, bucking against his hand as he pumped his finger, faster and faster until your pants turned into hyperventilating and your legs started to close around his hips.
"Got my whole hand drenched, pretty love," he whispered. "That perfect little cunt can handle another finger?"
You preened against his hand, your sounds muffled against his large, meaty palm and he chuckled at you.
The second finger was a tighter fit, his thick digits spreading you and squelching into you slowly.
"Ah, there's my girl," he moaned in your ear. "Fucking my fingers like a good girl."
You wanted to tell him to quit teasing, to bring you to orgasm as quickly as possible because the heat stirring under your skin was insatiable, but you didn't understand how much Billy was enjoying himself. He didn't know when he'd get a chance to have you so willingly spread open for him again, or if he'd ever get the chance again. So he savored this moment like a dying man's last meal.
He let you adjust to his fingers, fucking them into you, palming your clit before he thrust in another finger, opening you wide to him. You gurgled against his hand, muffled moans and pleas stuck behind his palm.
He didn't miss just how tight you were around his fingers, how snug and warm. "So tight, my little love," he cooed, thrusting his fingers in and out slowly, enjoying the way your hips bucked.
The sloppy sounds of your cunt sucking on his fingers drove you mad and a hot, painful knot formed in your belly, pulling and tugging at your insides.
He felt you trembling, your orgasm on the horizon, and he lifted his hand off your mouth, capturing your lips in a warm, sloppy kiss.
"Want you to cum with my name in your mouth," he mumbled, almost incoherent in his chase for your climax. He pressed his thumb to your mouth, opening it, listening to your panting, your quiet moans as he fucked his fingers into your cunt, pressing down on your clit, rubbing it with his palm.
"Billy," you breathed. "Billy. Billy." Like a mantra, a prayer.
"That's it, my pretty girl," he whispered, thumb on your tongue, fingers fucking your pussy until that knot in your bely tightened impossibly and your legs went numb. "Cum my pretty dove, gush all over my hand, come on now."
He grunted against you, and somehow, that guttural, manly sound made stars explode in your belly and you came, shuddering his name quietly, over and over and over until the pleasure had seeped out of your veins and you crumbled back to the floor. You felt his fingers slip out of you, his wet hand pull your knee apart, press against the meat of your thigh, spreading you wide, wide open.
He slithered down your body like a snake, pushing you up against the confines of this box until you felt the warm breath of him against your clit. When he lapped at you, humming around your hole like a satiated man, you mumbled his name, searching with your hands until you grabbed onto the thick strands of his hair. Panting, you mumbled his name again.
"Just having a taste, love," he mumbled, sucking on your over-sensitive clit until the heat came blasting through you again, all over, like you were under the Seducer's spell again.
"Fuck," you gritted, biting your lip, caging in the awfully loud, guttural moan that wanted to spring free.
Billy grabbed onto your hips, holding them down, his forearm over your belly like an anchor.
"One more, little Truthteller," he mumbled, flicking your clit with his tongue, his beard scraping on the inside of your sensitive thighs.
"Billy, please," you whined softly.
"Always wanted a taste," he said. Not a lie. "Always wanted to tongue-fuck this perfect hole." Not a lie.
He pressed his tongue flat to your clit, sucked and nibbled on it until he pressed his tongue right into your cunt, fucking you with his tongue like he'd promised. The mix of his hot breath, his tongue inside your walls, his thumb working on your clit made all your senses flush full of adrenaline. Bucking against his face, you rode his mouth until another flash burst through you and you came all over his face, grinding down on his nose until the last waves of your orgasm had left you.
When he climbed back over, kissing your belly, your nipple, covering you with his warmth, you were just a numb shell of the girl you were when you walked in here.
Billy kissed your jaw, your neck, stroking your hair as you regained your senses.
Whoever had been overhead had gone. It was completely silent. And it left you wondering if that last wave of need had been the Seducer's spell or Billy's.
"We should go, love," he whispered. "Before I stuff you full of my cock and have you cumming on it for the third time."
His filthy mouth brought you back to your body, cold and sweaty and oh so comfortable with two orgasm singing in your veins.
"Yeah," you whispered as Billy pushed the trap door open, peaking out to make sure the coast was clear, and then hopping out. He helped you out with his hand, gentle and calm, smoothing down your hair, covering your nipple, patting down your two-inch skirt.
"I've made a real good mess of you, love, eh?" he chuckled, standing and taking your hand. "Was I a good pet?"
LOKI S02 E06 Glorious Purpose
What a SCENE! 💚
A Shrek (2024) remake starring:
Simon Riley as “Shrek” 🧌
Y/n L/n as “Fiona” 👑
Johnny MacTavish as “Donkey” 🫏
In IMAX theaters near you this spring Rated R+
🧸 is this anon icon taken yet?
The teddy bear anon is taken!
Also you can’t convince me Johnny WOULDNT (at least try) and fuck a dragon
just watched the ballad of songbirds and snakes.
Favourite nurse
********************
Here is a small something for you guys :)
I'm thinking about making a part 2 with some smut but I'm gonna let y'all decide if you want that <33
Tw: meantion of wounds
*********************
The hospital lights were too bright and the people too loud.
That's at least what Ghost thought as he sat on a small bed waiting for you, his favourite nurse. He has been here for 3 hours now, and his wounds were still open and ready to get infected. It's not like he had the chance to leave prior, but he chose to wave every other nurse off when they came his way.
None is like you.
He shifted, making the bed squeak and huffed. Where were you?
Right on cue you're figure appeared from around the corner and shit did you look good.
Your hair was braided with some strand loose at the front. You had a smile plastered on your face, which vanished when you saw him.
A frown formed as you approached him making his heart beat fast in uncertainty. What were you thinking?
He stared at your mouth when you stood in front of him, starting to speak.
"What happened?" Your voice was laced with worry and confusion. Wasn't he here yesterday?
Ghost cleared his throat which felt odly dry.
"Had a fight" he answered shortly. You nodded in response.
"Alright ehm- well let's get to work then" You said but the last part was more for you than for him.
He took his shirt of to reveal the wounds and you prayed that he couldn't see you gawking at his abs. Like damn what did they feed him.
Shaking those thoughts away you started disinfecting the cuts, trying to stay calm.
Why did his presence bother you so much?
"How was your day" His voice cut the tension and you thanked him mentally.
"It- uh it was good yeah. Not many people came in and...yup" you said while biting your lip.
He hummed contently, probably pleased with the answer.
The minutes went by and you finally finished your work.
"Alright everything is patched up now. Take this cream and rub it over the wounds a bit it will help with the pain"
He took the cream from you, fingers brushing against yours. It may sound weird but you could have sworn that you saw him redden underneath his mask.
"Thanks doc"
He stood up and grabbed his bag, slugging it over his right shoulder.
"No problem really. But please take care of yourself, I really don't want to see you here again tomorrow"
You mentally slapped yourself for that sentence. 'I don't want to see you' like wtf was wrong with you.
"I-i mean I want to see you ju-just not hurt" you rambled, trying to save yourself from your self-driven-shit.
"Don't worry I know what you meant" he said softly, hand was reaching to your face and to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
You face warmed up and probably reddened at this gesture.
"I'll see you then Ghost" you said as he walked down the hallway.
He turned around.
"See you doc. And it's Simon"
PLEASE POST PART TWO IM DYING
cotton candy | s.riley - masterlist
Summary: On a mission to locate and capture the elusive South American mafia drug lord, Alvarez, Ghost stumbles upon the only person whose ever seen the mafia leader’s face, and who can properly identify him. Keeping her close - and safe - are imperative for this mission’s success. But having the need the sink his teeth in the soft flesh of her neck - oh no, that’s not a part of the mission.
WARNINGS: DUB-CON themes, topics, and scenes. I REPEAT, DUB-CON. DNI if that’s not your thing. Eventual smut. Language, violence, gore, and mentions and scenes of weapons - knives, guns, weapons of mass destruction, etc. This is COD, BUT WILL NOT FOLLOW THE EVENTS OF THE CAMPAIGN, so before the cod boys come for my wig, no, this won’t follow anything.
Character pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Original female character
Appearing characters: Laswell, Price, Soap, Alejandro, and Gaz.
Keep reading
New chapter out homieezzzz 😫💦🕊️🫡😘😘🩷
cotton candy | s.riley
CHAPTER TEN
Pairing: Simon Riley aka Ghost x Original female character
Warnings: language, blood, guns, and gun violence
Chapter Summary: Laura gets caught in an ambush, throwing her right at the mercy of her enemies. In the dark, alone, covered in blood, there might be no way she survives this one.
A/N: AYEEE! Okay not much smut or anything in here, but just some more story building. Next chapter is gonna be some HEAVY smut but I had to build to that so if you're one of those who don't care about the story, just skip to next chapter LOL
Masterlist
Taglist: Open
Find it on AO3 HERE.
I got back into the bar, finding it in me to ignore what had just happened. Every inch of my skin buzzed, my lips swollen and pained from his mouth, from the kisses he lay down my neck. I was desperately grasping at the memories that were vanishing like smoke - I wanted to remember that feeling. There was no way that my treacherous mind would rip those memories of Ghost - Simon - from me.
Soap and Ale were still inside, and when Soap's eyes found mine across the dark, foggy room, I was brutally reminded of the words Simon had spoken against my neck.
"I want you to cum, Laura."
"Soap would do a fine job, I'm sure."
And from across the room, Soap smiled, waved at me.
The sergeant living in my head chuckled, touching me and kissing me and whispering filthy nothings against my warm skin. I had to shake my head to get the image of Soap fucking me out of my mind.
This place was driving me to the brink of insanity.
"Ghost left?" Soap asked, meandering through the crowd like a bullet through glass to get to me. He stood a few inches away, like I was a fire hazard.
I rose my brows, puckered my lips. God, could I make it anymore obvious? "Uh, yeah, he was tired."
Soap stared at me, expressionless. He knew. "Yeah, right, okay, let's get absolutely hammered, yeah?"
The first two drinks went down like water, which helped because I sucked at pool and Soap was a horrible teacher and Ale kept laughing at me.
By the time Gaz walked in, fresh from a shower that I could smell a mile away (he came to impress), I was halfway through my sixth beer, and my skin buzzed.
He caught up to me in no time, flashing a dazzling smile, arm across my shoulder, screaming and swaying to the music playing so loud my chest hurt. With Soap beside me, yelling in whatever language, his skin grazing mine whenever he swayed against me. His knuckles against my biceps, his arm replacing Gaz's, his laugh in my ear. A haunting, a terrible, terrible haunting figure of him stayed imprinted like a scalding brand against my mind.
Because the rest of the night was just a blur.
And the second I woke up, I knew trouble was on the horizon.
I tumbled out of my bunk, still clad in the sweaty, dirty clothes of last night, watching Gaz and Soap run across the RV, splotches of harsh sunlight catching on their skin.
"What's happening?" I mumbled, headache pounding in my skull, still half drunk.
Gaz looked up as he was peeling an old pair of boxers from the floor. "Alvarez is moving cargo today," he said, throwing the dirty thing into the bathroom.
"Cargo?"
"Guns, explosives, ammo."
Soap latched a bulletproof vest onto his shoulders. "And drugs."
I sighed. "Cool, so what then?"
Gaz shrugged. "We catch a couple guys, waterboard them until they give us some kind of valuable information, eh, Soap?"
Soap winked, slapping on the flaps of his vest. "Yes, sir."
I raked my hands in my hair, through the tangled mess of black knots.
"Price will stay with you," Gaz said, slipping on his boots.
I frowned and crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. "Who?"
"Captain Price," Gaz answered. "He'll meet us here in twenty and bring you to comms. You'll be able to quickly identify Alvarez if he's there and also, we can make sure you're not wandering around here willy-nilly."
I opened my mouth, insulted. "Willy-nilly?"
"You do tend to do that a lot, princess," Soap interjected, slipping on gloves that just made his entire outfit look... sexy.
I rolled my eyes, locking myself in the bathroom. I listened to them finish up; lacing their shoes, throwing the worst jokes ever between them. While I brushed my hair and got ready for a shower, I heard them leave, and it gave me peace to know I was alone. Even if it was only for 20 minutes.
I showered and dressed in a green t-shirt that I got from the girls on base, so it was tight enough for me. I got back into my black trousers and laced on some kicks.
I was halfway into a Fruitloops bowl when the door to the RV swung open. Like on instinct, my body tensed, a wash of burning heat flashing down my spine.
But it wasn't Ghost. It was this Price fellow, shadowed in the doorframe with the morning sun burning at his back.
He was tall, his shoulders stretching out the long sleeve tee he was wearing, the color of charcoal. A thick moustache that connected to his beard, under cold and small blue eyes. His hat, a sort of fisherman's dream, made him look almost homely.
"Laura?"
I squinted. "No."
He squinted back, tilting his head to the side like a father scolding a child. "You're not stupid and neither am I," he said. Oh he definitely had kids. He gestured at me with one gloved hand. "Let's get going."
I huffed, dropping my bowl of cereal into the sink and walking out of the RV with Price. He was really tall, I realized, as I climbed down the two wiggling steps of the motorhome. Not as tall as Ghost, but close enough.
Price was galant, holding the door for me, offering his hand. I chose to ignore it, feeling fussy and jittery.
"They said you were somethin' else," he mumbled as he closed the door, letting it swing shut.
I looked back, watching him as the morning sun bathed him in light. "Who said what about me?" I asked, following him with quick steps, trying to keep up with his giant leaps.
The sun blinded me as we made our way through the maze of tents, but I still saw the corner of his lips move into a smirk.
"Is it Johnny?" I asked again. "Or Ale?"
He shook his head. "I bet you'd like to know."
We rounded the corner of the gym building, lounging the wall, the sun so hot and bright here.
"Of course," I answered. "I want to know which one's talking smack about me."
"No one's talking smack about you, Laura."
"It's gotta be Soap."
He turned to me, pining me under his beady blue eyes. But he was sort of smiling. "I like you," he said, and I couldn't help but make a silly grimace. "But stop acting like a baby."
I followed him in silence after that. We walked between the Emergency Room and the Women's Barracks, saved by the shade and the coolness made me sigh in relief.
"Why does everyone wear gloves around here?" I asked. He groaned. "I mean, it's like you guys are organizing some type of mass murder but you're being very careful about fingerprints."
"Shut up."
He opened a door for me that lead into a very somber hallway. The building was the biggest manmade structure on base, and the call of the AC had me scuttling inside to reach the fresh air.
Closing the door, Price let out a groan of relief as well. "Welcome to comms," he said, gesturing with his hand down the somber hall.
"This place is eerie."
The hall echoed our steps as we meandered down, opening a door to the sound of metal hinges and static. Price guided me into a room full of small monitors, like TVs in the 70s, glued to every inch of the four walls.
The room was rather small, which made the boy sitting at the desk seem so out of place.
"Laura," Price said, closing the door behind us. "Meet Private Michaels, our communications technician."
The boy, Michaels, turned in the wheely chair, a horrifying screech coming from the wheels. He had a mass of curly brown hair flopped over his head--so not army appropriate--and he had so many freckles on his face. It made him look no older than eighteen, with round cheeks and hope in his big doe eyes.
"Nice to meet you," I said, following the physical instruction Price was giving me to sit at the desk opposite Michaels.
Price sat in the chair next to me, holding a pair of headphones in his hand. "Put these on," he said.
I did as I was told.
"Here," he instructed, pointing to the monitors in front of me. The white and grey glow of the screens reflected off his face, casting awkward shadows on him, like black, moving smudges.
I turned to the screen, watching as Soap sat down. "Soap," I said, almost hopefully, a smile bursting on my face.
"He can't hear you," Price muttered absentmindedly, taking his hat off to put on his headphones. His hair was short and cropped, a soft brown. "These are bodycams," he explained. "You're viewing Ghost's now. And with these buttons here, you can switch between them."
I looked at his fingers as he played with the keyboard's function button. I did the same on mine, and the view changed, showing Gaz chewing on gum, settled in next to someone's broad shoulder.
"All strapped in boys?" he said, and hearing him through the headphones made me laugh. I felt like I was spying on them. I heard mumbles across the comms, and then I heard an engine starting.
"Michaels," Price said. "Convoy is on the move."
"Convoy 783 Alpha Romeo Alpha Echo is moving towards primary target," Michael repeated, and when I turned, he was holding a mic to his mouth. He quickly panned back to the screen, and I could see an aerial view of the truck in question.
"You can see the drone footage like this," Price said, getting my attention back to my own screens.
He pressed a few buttons on my keyboard, and the screen to my left switched to the drone view.
I followed the little green truck with my eyes, trying to imagine what the guys looked like in there, huddled up. I tried to imagine what they were thinking, if they thought this entire mission was so stupid; since they had to babysit some girl who got caught in the crossfire and chase after a drug lord that should've been easy to catch.
I felt so dumb, so worthless and stupid as I watched the bodycams; seeing Gaz check his weapons, Ghost and his skull mask leaning against the wall of the truck with an empty look in his eyes. Soap with his rifle barrel down, hand on the butt end of it. Ale smoking a cigarette.
These men who had better things to do had become sort of... my friends.
I felt my heart beat a little faster, and the closer they got to the target location, the more I felt blood rush in my ears.
"Convoy has arrived at drop off," Michaels narrated.
"If you see anyone familiar, Laura," Price told me, leaning close to me so I was forced to pay attention. "Tell me."
I nodded, feeling my palms start to sweat. "Yes."
"Squad is 900 yards from target location."
"Switch to Soap or Ghost," Price instructed, and I flipped my view to Ghost, watching the sway of his gun, one of his gloved hands gripping the barrel. "Put Soap on your second monitor."
I did, seeing the ground move beneath his rapid steps, watching them approach a building with a splotch of shade beside it like dark ink.
"500 yards."
I felt a lump rise in my throat.
"Target location acquired. Lieutenant, move your squad into position."
From Ghost's camera, I saw them crowd the building; Soap moving in front of Ghost, towards the entrance. On the other side of the door, Gaz and Ale, nodding to each other in a language unknown to me.
"Moving int-"
And then the entire world went dark.
The monitors closed with a doomed dying sound, a cloak of darkness snapping into the room. No lights. No sounds. Just the echo of my heartbeat and nothing else.
Until Price. "Michaels, what happened."
No response.
"Michaels!"
"Sir, I'm not entirely sure!" the boy answered frantically. I heard the wheels of his chair screech in response.
"Get us back on!"
"Nothing's working sir!"
I heard Price get out of his chair, and he moved, but I couldn't see. Even my hand a few inches from my nose. I was blind.
"Where's the -"
"Sir, I'm trying the breaker box, everything is fried."
"Fried?"
I felt something like a stone drop in my belly, a looming doom rising in my chest like a monster.
Something was terribly wrong.
"Yes, sir, fried."
"How?" Price asked, and his voice, quiet and small, made it seem like he knew the answer to his own question. And then, "How?" and that was an entirely other question.
"I don't know how they got the technology, but I'm assuming-"
"Do you have a weapon?" Price interrupted.
"My side arm, sir."
I felt hands at my shoulders. How could he see in the dark?
"Stay with Laura." He instructed. "Laura, stay here. I'm going to go find a weapon."
"What..." but I trailed off when i heard the door, and my eyes had adjusted just enough to see a darker shadow pass in front of me and leave.
The sound of the shutting door was like an omen.
"Michaels," I whispered.
"It's okay, miss."
My hands turned into fists. "What's happening."
There was a long, strange silence, where I could practically feel the wheels turning in his head, as if he wasn't sure if he should tell me or not.
"There's been..." he trailed off, his voice strained. Then, "There's been an EMP."
I frowned, turning in my chair even though only i was only met with darkness. "A what?"
Again, a short silence. "It's an electromagnetic pulse," he clarified. "It fried our system and I don't know why we can't get it back on. They must be running interference."
I raised my brows. "They can do that?" I fired back. "They can do that to the US Navy?" I was more impressed than anything else.
"I guess."
"But why?" I asked.
Another silence. "For you, I'm thinking."
"Me?"
"You don't seem to realize that you're the only person outside of Alvarez's crew that has seen his face."
"I'm beginning to wonder if that's even true," I said. "He said he was Alvarez. He had the tattoo and all. What if it was a decoy?"
"No one else is allowed to have that tattoo," Michaels explained, seemingly an expert on this. "He kills anyone who even thinks of doing it. He's a kingpin. So yeah, maybe you're right, but I think they wouldn't spend that much money and energy on a whole EMP if you hadn't seen the real Alvarez's face."
In the distance, I heard a door opening and closing. I swallowed my fear, hoping Price was coming with good news.
"You're right," I told Michaels. "But still, I keep hoping this is all a hoax."
Michaels laughed, but it soon died on his lips when the door swung open and a flash, a bang of white hot, orange light burst into the room, illuminating the space in a flash, a moment.
It hung there before me like a tableau. On one side, Michaels on his feet, aiming his gun, a flash erupting from the barrel. On the other, someone else, definitely not Price, wearing black gear and a full face helmet.
I felt hung above this tiny room, watching this scene from a distance, hearing the sounds of gunshots, hearing bodies hitting the floor like marbles in water.
"Michaels!"
I stumbled in the dark, landing on my knees, something wet and so warm seeping through my trousers. On the other side, the sound of choking.
"Michaels!"
I felt around with my hands, wetting them in something thick like yogurt but warm like tea. I found his body with my hands, shaking it.
"Take... this," he stuttered, his voice wet and wretched, scratched and weak. He pressed something into my wet hands, something cold and metallic. The gun.
"No," I mumbled, and i felt the tears tracing down my face, the fear rising up in me when I finally realized what had just happened.
My ears buzzed.
I felt a cold fist reach into my chest and squeeze the air out of my lungs.
I was alone, in the dark, and someone had come in to try to kill me.
Was he dead?
I stood in the dark, with Michaels' gun in my trembling hands. My knees were weak, making it hard to cross the room, stepping on this stranger's dead body.
Disgust built in my throat, lumping in my mouth. I squeezed my eyes, allowing tears to slide off my lashes.
I pressed my hand against the door and pulled it open, moving this man's body with my feet.
I whimpered, disgusted with myself, with the fact that I had blood everywhere on me.
The door was open, but it was still so impossibly dark.
I had to get outside, where I had light, where I could see the sun.
Where was Price?
I pressed one bloody hand on the wall, the other holding the gun before me, shaking, trembling from head to toe. I kept a steady pace, trying to calm my breathing, my racing heart, my tears building along my lash line.
I heard a crash, a shot, footsteps on the other side of the building. I fell into a crouch, holding onto the gun with wet, rigid fingers. I blindly swung it around, finger so close to pulling the trigger.
I had to find light.
I almost screamed when I heard footsteps around the building outside, shouts in a language I couldn't understand.
I stood on shaking knees, the tremble moving into my legs as I took tiny steps towards the door--or what I thought was the door. But as I crept along the wall, my ears fine-tuned to any noise around me, it was clear that the building was surrounded.
It felt like hours went by. It felt like days in there, in the dark. There were shots echoing outside, ricocheting off the building. I could hear the cement tumbling to the ground.
I sat there, back to the wall, in utter silence and darkness, praying no one would come looking for either of the dead bodies in the other room.
But I wouldn't stay in here much longer. I had to get out. Find light. Find Price or Laswell or anybody else.
I stood and made it quietly to the front door, hand on the push bar, heaving in breath after breath. I pushed, holding the gun before my face. A sliver of light appeared, blinding me for a second as I came out.
I heard feet shuffling in the dirt, but the sun was so bright, my eyes hadn't yet adjusted. So I turned, saw a blurry, dark figure.
As soon as my eyes registered a gun pointed right at my head, my brain went into survival mode and I pulled the trigger.
The force of the gun made me tumble back, arm raised to shield from the sun, the potential bullet coming my way. But I just heard a shout of pain.
I raised my head, eyes still squinted. I'd shot the man, dressed in blacks, helmet over his face, bulletproof vest over his chest. I'd shot him right in the forearm, causing his gun to fall to the dirt ground.
"Oh, shit," I mumbled.
He looked up, pressing one hand against the bloody hole in his arm. He said something to me, but I didn't understand. And suddenly, he was charging at me, a few long leaps and he crashed into me, sending us both tumbling to the ground in a cloud of sandy smoke.
My head hit the ground with a sickening thud and I lost the gun, my hands coming up to shield my face. He kept screaming at me, his heavy body pressed flat against mine.
I screamed, pushing at his shoulders, but he meandered his hands around my neck and cut the air from my lungs. My eyes flew wide, watching my reflection in his mask; a wild girl with messy black hair and eyes filled with nothing but terror.
He was straddling me and there was no way I was strong enough to buck him off. But I tried anyway, planting my feet against the ground but with no air in my lungs, my face burning, lips swelling, my feet just resorted to scrambling against the dirt.
My vision was closing.
I tried to scream, but my mouth stayed open and I watched my reflection quietly go dark.
This was finally the end for me.
My eyes went dark and my hearing turned to a sharp ringing. He fell over me, relieved almost, so heavy like deadweight. I thought he was spitting on me, something wet slapping on my face, warm and gooey.
But then his fingers relaxed around my neck and I took a strong, loud gasp of air. I stared at the clear blue skies, watching my assailant's form like a huddled black mass laid right over me.
Did I die?
And then Ghost's mask came into view, over me, pulling the man from my body. With his weight lifted off, I coughed, gulping in air like a parched man with water.
I put my hands over my face, feeling the wet, dried crust of... blood?
It hadn't registered in my brain that the man had died. But why else was Ghost here? And when my fingers came back blood red, caked in Michaels' and two other man's blood, the fear that built in me came out like a shriek.
I felt hands at my shoulders, hoisting me up, and I turned, ready to punch, claw, kick, and scream my way out. But I only saw Soap's face, splattered with blood and torn with fear. He grabbed my face with two hands, bringing his eyes up to mine.
"Tell me you're okay," he breathed.
I was heaving, nodding frantically, grabbing onto his forearms like an anchor.
He sighed, relieved, pulling me against him. He kept one hand in my hair, the other stroking my chin.
"Soap, what's happening?" I asked, gripping onto his bulletproof vest.
I turned in his embrace, watching Ghost kick the body to the side and rip the helmet off. Someone, Ghost or Soap, had shot him clear through the neck. A gaping, bloody hole tore through his trachea.
"I would've kept him alive just to hurt him even more," Ghost said through clenched teeth. He was in his full army-issued uniform, complete with his tactical vest, his helmet, gloves.
When he turned to me, I saw the heavy look he gave me through the holes in his skull mask. The bone-white was sprinkled with dots of red.
He was angry.
"I'm so sorry I got out," I mumbled.
Soap hushed me, a finger on my lower lip, wiping the blood off, comforting me. Ghost stood, walking slowly up to us. He pushed the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, letting the weapon hang at his side, and reached out to brush a strand of hair out of my face.
"Not your fault," he mumbled. I looked up slowly, meeting his gaze. He was so close to us. With Soap holding onto my waist, Ghost's hands skimming down my neck, I finally felt safe.
It was so strange, having a dead body inches from my feet, and two grown men with the warmth of the sun cajoling me with comforting caresses down my spine, along my shoulders.
"We need to get her out of here," Soap mumbled. He'd buried his face in my hair, kissing along my hairline. The intimate gesture made me shiver.
I closed my eyes when I felt Ghost's hands along my waist.
Soap wrapped one arm around my shoulders steering me along. I watched as Ghost took back his weapon, walking in front of us as we rounded the corner of the comms building.
"They killed Michaels," I mumbled.
Soap pressed me closer to him.
"I had to take his gun," I continued. I shivered at the thought of his blood on my fingers. Of him dying alone in there, in the dark, with some strange body next to his.
We jogged to the barracks building, one I recognized from my time getting clothes from the women on base. We entered silently, the place quiet and dark.
"We should wait until they've got comms back on," Ghost said, closing the door behind us and hurrying us into the hall.
"Are we sure all shadows have been eliminated?" Soap asked.
"Dunno," Ghost mumbled, ripping open a door and ushering us inside. It was cold but the curtains were open and light swooped in, illuminating the few bunks in the room.
"We should wait out here until then," Ghost instructed, heading over to the curtains and pulling them shut, squeezing all light out of the room.
It’s Your Captain Tonight NSFW
Requested by Anon: Hi I follow you on twitter and I saw you retweeted that post about chris having an captain america suit in his closet for “special occaisons” so I am asking if you can do a chris evans smut when he surprises his girlfriend you with the suit? You can do whatever you want though thank you! xx
A/N: Wow, i am so proud of this smut LMAOOO but it’s just so NASTY OMG!! I can’t believe i wrote this!!! the gif is EXACTLY the chris that’s in this fic.
Warnings: smut, Dom!Chris, Rough!Chris, Sub!reader
*gif not mine
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MASTERLIST
You sit on the bed, the covers around you, flipping through a magazine. Your pajamas are simple: shorts and a tank top because the weather is too hot to sleep in anything more. The TV in the corner is on, blaring the news. The lights are dimmed.
Chris is in the bathroom. It’s always like this; your routine. You go in first, taking your time with skincare and showering, while Chris whines that he has to pee. Then, while you fluff up the pillows and prepare the bed for sleeping, Chris just pees and washes his teeth and he’s ready for bed.
“What about moisturizer?” you’d once asked, way back when you’d first started sleeping over. But your boyfriend had shrugged and waved it off because he’s just like that. Pretty like that.
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I need some water.
Everywhere. jESUS.
